


The Afterlife

by Mandaloria593



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Competency Kink, Din ‘Weapons are Part of My Religion’ Djarin, Emotions Following Helmet Removal, Episode: s02e07 The Believer, Episode: s02e08 The Rescue, Espionage, Happy Ending, M/M, Rare Pairings, Teamwork, Undercover, nonconsensual medical treatment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28514583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandaloria593/pseuds/Mandaloria593
Summary: Din and Mayfeld don’t make it off Morak so smoothly. Instead, they get “rescued” by the imperial Star DestroyerChimaeraand must maintain their imposter identities to stay alive if they hope to save their friends and the Child. Help comes in the form of a spy who was thought to have died on Scarif.How could Did explain that he’d been in mourning because he’d effectively died that day on Morak? And that every breath he took after the one when he’d shown his face to another living being was just the afterlife?
Relationships: Cassian Andor/Din Djarin, Din Djarin & Migs Mayfeld, minor Din/Mayfeld/Cassian
Comments: 55
Kudos: 95





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> AU from Mandalorian Chapter 15 “The Believer” that will catch back up with Chapter 16 "The Rescue." Thanks to my friend for helping me come up with a lot of the alias and OC character names. The undercover-imperials story idea is inspired in part by Anghraine’s fic [per ardua ad adstra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9223013/chapters/20915825/), which is a great read, and by [robotboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy), who introduced me to the delightful possibilities of Din/Cassian, who would be close in age if the _Rogue One_ heroes survived Scarif, as both men were orphaned during the Clone Wars. _The Mandalorian_ starts in 9 ABY, five years post ROTJ, and Din is estimated to be in his late 30s while Cassian (born 26 BBY) would be about 35.
> 
> This story is **complete** and will be posted in 7 increments as I edit individual chapters. Thanks for reading and reviewing! I greatly appreciate reader reactions.

Once Mayfeld shot Valin Hess, the scene erupted into chaos. Din jolted out of his stupor and launched into action. 

He and Mayfeld made quick work of the other Imps in the room—blasting one trooper who just froze holding his lunch tray. 

But after blasting two officers at another table, a third threw off his cap and raised his arms high, the snug-fitting brown uniform straining around his twisting body. “Wait! Don’t shoot! The, uh, _kirff_ , it’s _sunny on Hoth today, isn’t it?!”_

Din furrowed his brow and kept his blaster trained on the officer, finger hovering over the trigger. The man sported hat-mussed brown hair and a mustache, like Din. But his features were more refined. His dark eyes flicked between Din and Mayfeld, pleading. Din glanced at Mayfeld to see if the sharpshooter knew what that line about Hoth was supposed to mean.

  
Mayfeld only shrugged.

The officer winced. “Oh _kriff_ , you’re not Republic, are you?”

_Nope._ Din’s finger squeezed the trigger. 

The officer gasped. 

But nothing happened. The blaster jammed. Din sighed. That was the second piece of imperial junk to jam today.

Reflexes fast as a stone mite, the officer dropped to the floor, taking the metal table with him and turning it on its side as a shield. It was a smart move. Din was mildly impressed.

Mayfeld shot a few more troopers at the mess entrance. He offered the discarded trooper helmet to Din. “You did what you had to do.” _And so did I_ , went unspoken. “I never saw your face.”

Din exchanged once last meaningful glance with Mayfeld before slipping the helmet onto his head.

Mayfeld was already at the window, kicking out the glass. 

Din had to ignore the threat of the officer hiding behind the overturned table in order to find a different blaster, which he plucked from the belt of one of the fallen Imps. 

“Let’s go!” Mayfeld shouted, halfway out the window as he continued firing off his blaster at the doorway to the mess. 

Too many Imps had noticed the scuffle.

Din heard a muffled call from the behind the overturned table. “You got extraction? I can help!” 

Din only had a split second to decide whether to let the man come with them, as heavy fire was raining in from the hall. He decided not to turn down free help. “Roof,” he directed.

And then the officer was rolling the round table towards the door to the mess, close enough that he could use it as a shield to avoid getting shot while reaching a hand up to slam the locking mechanism. The door hissed shut, giving Din, Mayfeld, and the unknown officer a reprieve from the onslaught. The officer peeked from behind the table. “I’m coming out! Don’t shoot!”

The officer dashed to catch up with Din and Mayfeld as they battled their way across the window ledge. 

“Our team might snipe you,” Din warned quickly, as either Cara or Shand shot a trooper trying to grab them from the next window. 

The officer grimaced. “I’ve got to chance it.” He stepped out onto the ledge behind Din. And immediately the officer took a blaster hit in the arm. 

The officer wobbled dangerously on the ledge. He was going to fall. Was he worth saving? With a grunt of effort, Din grabbed him by the scruff of his uniform and slammed him against the side of the building, ungently but steadying. He shielded the man with his body from Cara and Shand. Knowing he was in their scopes, he made a series of fast hand gestures to let them know not to shoot the new addition. 

The man was cradling his arm, but still had his blaster in the other—and he seemed to know how to use it. The three of them fought their way to the roof, with Cara and Shand sniping Imps to clear their path.

The _Slave I_ loomed overhead, and Din had to stop shooting in order to race to the other end of the roof. 

The hatch opened, and Din leapt onto the ramp. 

Mayfeld jumped next and landed with a harsh thud. Din helped him up, and he was safe.

The turncoat officer was right behind them, and Din wasn’t sure he was going to make it. 

But the man had a determined look on his face and threw his body up off the roof towards the open hatch. His feet missed the ramp, but a hand gripped the edge. 

Din snatched the hand and pulled the man up the rest of the way up. 

“Hand me the cycler rifle,” Mayfeld said. 

Mayfeld took aim and fired. It was an impossible shot. If Din wasn’t breathing so heavily, he would have whistled. Din watched through the open hatch as the entire facility went up in flames. 

“Nice shot,” Din said.

“We’ve all got to sleep at night.” Mayfeld paused. “Did you get the coordinates to Moff Gideon and your kid?” 

Din held up the datastick before stashing it back in his pocket. 

The three of them were safely in Fett’s ship. But their escape wasn’t over yet.

“We’ve got incoming,” Fett warned over the comms. “Hang on.”

Din saw Mayfeld strap himself into one of the seats, but their stowaway was still lying injured on the deck where Din had dragged him aboard. 

Din had gotten the officer this far. He could get him a little farther before deciding whether to toss him back. Ignoring the officer’s pained groan, Din hauled the officer up and onto his lap as he strapped them both into the other free seat, just as Fett started maneuvering the ship to avoid the green streaks of Tie firepower. 

The ship kilted hard to one side and then the other. The officer’s dark-haired head lolled against Din’s chest as they withstood Fett’s evasive actions. 

“Kriff!” the man cursed as Din accidentally pressed against the man’s arm where he’d suffered the blaster injury.

Din suddenly heard the deep-bass sound of a sonic blast. Impressive weaponry. His respect for Fett ratcheted up another notch.

Once they were in the clear, Mayfeld and Din unclasped their harnesses. 

“Who’s the stray?” Mayfeld asked, nodding towards the officer. 

Din shrugged, and they both looked to the haggard imperial officer, stilling leaning against Din. Din wondered if he let the man go if he’d sprawl onto the deck.

“Thanks for the exit,” the man said instead of identifying himself. His accent in Basic was thick, and Din tried to place it. It could have been Outer Rim. Maybe Fest? “My extraction got botched. I’m sure she’s on the way.”

Din let go of the man, who remained upright but unsteady. Din stepped back to assess him. Injured. Competent. Evasive. Attractive. Din attached no particular order of priority to those descriptors. 

“You’re a spy,” Mayfeld surmised. “New Republic.”

The man didn’t deny it. “I just need a ride off this rock. I’ll get out of your hair after that, I promise.”

Mayfeld’s mouth twitched. “It might cost more than a promise.”

The man pursed his lips. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

Seeing as Mayfeld had the situation in hand, Din began to look around the ship for his armor. As the adrenaline faded, he was feeling more and more vulnerable without it. The question of whether he still had a right to wear it was not one he was ready to confront. 

Din was distractedly searching the cargo hold when the ship banked right with a rough jolt, and he banged his head on an exposed metal beam. _Dank farrik!_ Din’s imp helmet was not nearly as protective as his beskar one.

“More incoming!” Fett yelled.

_You think?_ Din muttered to himself. But before he could find something to hold onto, the ship careened forward in a low-altitude spin. 

Din thudded against the wall and then the deck, like a coin bouncing around a tin can. He began to slide.

He glanced down past his boots and saw that he was sliding straight for the still-open hatch. _Kriff!_ He was going to fall out of the ship! What he wouldn’t give to have his vambrace so he could deploy his tether.

Just before Din slid straight out the hatch and into the open atmosphere—with no jetpack to speak of, _again—_ his arm was caught in a strong grip. 

“Got ya!” came a triumphant shout.

It was the spy. He was holding onto Din with his good arm.

But Din’s relief was only temporary, as he realized the spy himself was only being held onto the ship by his boots by Mayfeld. 

Mayfeld’s face was pinched as he strained to hold both the spy’s and Din’s weight in addition to his own. 

_BOOM!_

The ship shuddered as it took a direct hit.

“Fett, what’s happening?!”

_BOOM! BOOM!_

“Reinforcements arrived! We’re going down!”

They were going to be crushed like bugs in the rough landing. Din shouted to Mayfeld, “When we hit the treeline, we bail!”

The ship was in freefall. Din looked out the hatch below him, and when he saw more green than blue, he gave the signal. “Now!”

The three men dropped in a tangle of limbs out of the ship’s hatch and into the open sky. 

Din hoped to break his fall on tree branches. It worked to slow his descent. Sort of. And Din himself broke the spy’s fall, the man dropping on top of Din as they crashed through branches, leaves, and vines. But the ground came up to meet them too fast. Din’s imperial helmet did very little to soften the blow as he came to a final thud upon the dirt. Din passed out on impact. 

<><><><><><><><>

Din woke up to the sensation of drowning.

His gasp was swallowed by a tube in his mouth. 

He was submerged in bluish liquid. 

His clawing hands met glass on all sides. He thrashed and kicked to swim up. He emerged at the top, choking. Hands pulled him the rest of the way out of the bacta tank. 

_Bacta tank?!_

Din flailed his naked limbs— _naked!_ —in a barely contained panic. At the mining facility, standing helmetless in front of Valin Hess, Din had felt as though he’d been stripped bare. But apparently there were still more layers of him for the Imps to scrape off, gnawing the last meat off Din’s bones as if they hadn’t already devoured him.

Din’s legs wouldn’t hold him up, and he wondered how long he’d been in the bacta tank. 

“Easy there, Sir,” said the medic who was wrapping a towel around Din and maneuvering him onto a bed. 

“Bacta emergence at 0800 logged. What is the chart number?” A droid’s clipped voice inquired. 

“What’s your name?” the medic asked Din directly.

Din stared numbly at his surroundings. The question was not asked unkindly, but Din had no idea where he was. Was he on-world or off-world? If it was a ship, was this a medical frigate? An imperial cruiser? Republic? He looked blankly between the droid and the medic. He didn’t recognize the make of the droid, but the white-clad medic had a well-known, well-hated insignia on his chest. _Kriff_. More imperial remnants. 

“Note head trauma in his chart,” the medic told the droid, as he shined a light in Din’s face, first at one eye then the other.

Din flinched away. 

The droid’s long robotic fingers tapped at a data pad. “The chart has an entry from Captain Anders,” the droid stated. “It says this one is TK-593. Junior Lieutenant Hjalmar Gershom.” The droid gestured to a screen next to the bed. “His heart rate is elevated.”

The medic took hold of Din’s wrist and placed two fingers at his pulse point. 

Din yanked his hand back with as much force as he could muster, which wasn’t a lot. The medic frowned. 

“Where am I?” Din asked, still coughing up bacta. He pulled the sterile sheet tighter over himself. It provided only the flimsiest barrier—the opposite of Din’s usual garments if there ever were any.

“You’re safe on the _Chimaera_ , I-Class, Sir,” the medic answered him. At the same time, he jabbed Din in the neck with a hypospray. 

Din hissed, but the effects were immediately soothing, smothering Din’s panic like a wet blanket on a womp rat’s tail. It was probably a sedative.

“Your squadron is lucky we were so close by,” the medic continued, deftly removing himself from Din’s reach as if he had plenty of practice with recalcitrant patients. Or maybe he was just oblivious to Din’s discomfort. “Very few of you survived the rhydonium explosion. But we retrieved you and your juggernaut trooper partner, as you were both found near Captain Anders. You were protecting him?”

“Y-yes” Din stuttered, unsure. “It’s all a bit blurry.” At least that part was true.

A cool hand was pressed to Din’s forehead. He wanted to swat it away, but his limbs weren’t cooperating as the sedative ran its course. “Quite a bump on the head you took. But don’t worry, the bacta did its job. You’ll be back on the roster soon enough. I promised your Captain I’d see to it personally. He was _very_ generous.” The medic tapped his pocket and grinned when it jingled. The medic was implying he’d been bribed to take a special interest in Din’s case. And he’d been bribed by someone named Captain Anders? Was that the supposed spy who’d tried to escape with him and Mayfeld? The medic spoke again, “Sleep now. The next time you wake will be more pleasant.”

_Unlikely,_ given that Din was trapped helmetless and injured on a _Star Destroyer._ But he hadn’t been the only one who’d taken a risk. “Wait,” Din said. “What about the, um, the ship that was attacking the mining base? And the attackers?”

The medic sneered. “We secured the scum. They’re in the brig. I heard one of them was a Mandalorian, can you believe it? Another was a rebel shock trooper. The third was some assassin. Savages, the lot of them.”

“Right,” Din murmured. They’d really kriffed this up.

“Actually, there may have been two Mandalorians. A full, shiny set of armor was retrieved, all wrapped up like a present for the taking.”

A small pinprick of hope flared in Din’s chest. If Din’s armor was aboard, and if he could reclaim it . . . “And now the armor is where?”

“Why? You looking to buy a piece as a trophy?”

Din thought of how the medic was taking extra fees on the side. “Maybe.”

The medic scoffed. “The usual inventory sell-off isn’t happening. _Nobody’s_ getting a piece, not once the Grand Admiral got his blue nails into it and praised its _artisanal beauty_ or some poodoo.” 

Din didn’t know what to make of that, but at least the armor was intact and not being sold off piece by piece to the highest bidder. Greef Karga’s posturing that he’d wanted to keep Din’s helmet _for his wall_ came to mind. Apparently, that sentiment was disturbingly common.

The medic gave him a brief nod, then walked away, the droid following at his heels. 

Din let his head flop against the pillow. As the sedative continued to take its toll, he blinked away tears that had welled up unbidden and unwanted. He was further than ever from rescuing Grogu, and further than ever from his Creed. His limbs felt heavy, and his mind was foggy. The hum of medbay machines lulled him into an uneasy, drugged sleep. 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><>

“Wake up, Brown Eyes.”

Din blearily opened his eyes and rubbed them. _Mayfeld._ The sharpshooter was standing at Din’s bedside. He was no longer wearing the trooper armor but instead wore an imperial officer’s uniform. 

“Nice dress,” Mayfeld mocked, though the tone held something like affection. “You’ve had more costume changes in this dramedy than you wanted, I think.”

Din glanced down at himself. He was in a paper-thin medical gown that covered his front but only tied in the back. 

Mayfeld tugged at his own constricting high neckline. “I hate these things. But battlefield promotions are all the rage.”

Din looked past Mayfeld, surveying the medbay. The _imperial_ medbay. Din ground out accusingly, “Seems you found your way home.”

Mayfeld growled and grabbed Din by the throat. “How dare—”

“Gentlemen!” A loud voice interrupted. “That’s enough of that.”

Mayfeld let go of Din and straightened to stand at attention. “Sorry, Cap.”

Din watched as the man whose orders Mayfeld hopped to obey stepped into view. It was the same officer from the mining facility, the one who was supposedly a rebel spy. Din snorted. So much for that theory. The man was in full imperial regalia, with more than one pip affixed to the insignia plaque on his breast.

“Let’s remember we’re all friends here,” the pseudo-spy insisted, his tone the same one you’d used to calm a frightened blurrg. He looked first to Mayfeld then pinned serious brown eyes on Din. 

The accent Din had previously heard before in the man’s voice was noticeably absent, which meant the man was either back to playing a role or back to his usual self. Regardless, Din didn’t believe the man’s words about any of them being _friends._ It was just too convenient for the two of them: the ‘former’ imperial sharpshooter and the imperial turncoat ‘spy’. Both had imperial ties, whereas Din was the odd man out. Din was alone. He wasn’t a good liar—he’d already forgotten the TK number Mayfeld had made up for him—and he was going to get found out. And then he’d be dead before he could salvage his armor. Dead before he could rescue Cara, Shand, and Fett. Dead while Grogu waited to be saved . . . waited for _Din_ to save him. If they got enough of the kid’s blood, they’d kill the little guy. And Din wouldn’t be there. The kid would think Din had abandoned him—

“Hey! Snap out of it!” 

Fingers literally snapped in front of Din’s face. Mayfeld was leaning over him. A machine was beeping incessantly. “Pull it together, Mando.”

“Don’t!” the other man hissed. “Not here.”

“If you’re just in my medbay to elevate his BP, get out,” Din heard the medic say. 

But the Captain—the ‘spy’—was ushering the medic away. Din overheard him threatening something about “ _my_ officer” and “questioning _my_ commands.” 

Mayfeld, however, remained at his side, and he was still blathering on. “Based on that prison transport, I thought you were _good_ in a crisis. Seems that’s only true when you’ve got that bucket on your head. I still can’t believe you went all fathier-in-frontlights back at the mining base.” 

Din didn’t respond. He just focused on slowing his breathing. 

“You concussed or something? Don’t you want to rescue your friends? Your kid?” Mayfeld reached out to shake Din’s shoulder.

Din reacted as if the touch burned. In a way, it did. Din was seething hot with anger. He grabbed Mayfeld’s wrist and _twisted_. _Hard_.

“Dank farrik! You asshole!” Mayfeld ducked and unwound from Din’s hold before turning the tables back on Din. He pressed Din to the bed using Din’s own arm across his throat to cut off his air supply. 

Din struggled against Mayfeld’s hold, but he was still weak. Too weak. Black spots started to appear in his vision.

Mayfeld was hissing in his ear. “You think you’re the only one who doesn’t want to be here? You think you’re the only one living your worst nightmare? Get fucked, Mando.”

Din braced himself to lose consciousness. 

As quickly as it had started, Din was released. Squinting, he saw the Captain had returned to pry Mayfeld off of him. 

Din curled in on himself, wheezing in an attempt to reclaim oxygen into his sore body. From his sideways angle on the bed, he watched the Captain smack Mayfeld on the back of the head, knocking off his officer’s cap. Din just needed to close his eyes for a moment. Just a moment.

When he opened his eyes again, the room was dim, and only the Captain was present, straddling the back of a chair that he’d pulled up next to Din’s bed.

“Go away.” Din meant the words to be an order, but they came out more like a plea. Din sat up slowly, but even that slight movement sent his head spinning. 

The man—Imperial Captain? Republic Spy?—flicked his eyes to Din’s, and Din met his gaze uncomfortably. Eye contact was still new territory. It was unsettling. 

The man sighed, and he was looking at Din with something like pity. 

Din didn’t want his pity.

Din didn’t want anything from him. Din wanted to go back to before the man had seen his face—before _any_ of these Imps had seen his face. 

“Hey,” the man said quietly, shifting closer. The man reached out a hand but then seemed to change his mind, placing it back in his lap. Din appreciated that at least one person on this ship wasn’t going to grab at him. “I’m going to get you out of here, okay?” 

Din blinked hard, and had to _will_ himself not to tear up again. He didn’t want false hope. He also didn’t know if the man meant out of the medbay or off the ship. The _Chimaera_. A kriffing _Star Destroyer_. Din had a lot of experience hunting ex-imperial bounties over the last five years, and he’d heard plenty of stories about Imp bases at the covert, but he’d never encountered anything like this. He was out of his depth. And it was this man’s fault. “I’m going to kill you,” Din informed him. It was only polite to give fair warning. 

“Are you threatening me?” the man asked, sounding amused. 

“Yes,” Din said simply.

The man actually smiled, and his expression was so radiant and fond that it left a confused feeling in Din’s stomach. “I guess that spunk is a good sign. Your buddy was worried you’d given up. That’s why he flipped out. He’s counting on you. Just like the others. And your kid, right?”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Din implored, as blood rushed to his head, and his chest tightened painfully. He was drowning all over again.

“I’m getting you transferred out of this medbay as soon as I can. Unlike your friend, I think you need more, ah, _supervision_ than the general quarters, so you’ll be with me. And then we’ll get our new assignment, gather what we lost, and be on our way. Got it?”

Din looked down, fiddling with the frayed edges of the medical gown. The man sounded earnest enough, but Din needed to parse the instructions without the man staring at him like a slug under twin suns. He needed to figure out where the trap lay. 

“Got it, _Lieutenant?”_ the man’s tone hardened. 

Din jerked his head up. Was the man addressing Din? He was! But the man wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was looking at a small gray box and its blinking red light hanging at the corner of the ceiling. Din realized they were being monitored. More importantly, he realized the man wanted _Din_ to understand that they were being monitored. He stuttered out, “Yes-s, S-s-sir.”

“It’s okay to call me Captain Anders here.” The man stood up and began to leave Din’s bedside. 

Din’s head was reeling. He craved more information. The notion of having a mission plan was like a lightning rod in his mind, collecting his frayed, thunderous thoughts and coalescing them to a knife’s edge. If Din could just tie himself to that single focus, like finding the eye of a storm, he might be able to pick up the broken pieces of himself. And one piece stood out sharper than the others, a fractured, jagged thing. “Wait,” he called. “I lost the datastick.”

Captain Anders raised an eyebrow. 

Did he understand? Did he know Din meant the coordinates to Moff Gideon’s ship, where Grogu was being held? Had Din shared any of that information before? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t be sure.

“I’ve got clearance,” Captain Anders offered in response. “I’ll work on it.”

With that, Din let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

There was still a chance. An infinitesimal chance, but a chance nonetheless.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Isn’t the Empire defeated?_ Din wanted to ask but didn’t dare. It sure didn’t _feel_ defeated, not while Din was stuck in this ludicrous conversation with his face bared to the universe while standing on the deck of a kriffing Star Destroyer, which was apparently commanded by a surviving Grand Admiral.
> 
> Din considered whether he needed to remind Anders that he was not, in fact, an imperial officer at his command.

Din frowned at himself in the refresher mirror and adjusted his cap. He had few pips on his imperial insignia plaque, so he was an officer but not a very high-ranking one. It was enough to be able to go about his business on the ship, but not so important as to draw any special attention. 

He looked like a stranger to himself. But at least the disguise got him into an outfit that didn’t have only a front closure like the medical gown. And, on some level, the fact that it was just that—a disguise—was reassuring, because it meant this wasn’t really him. In a way, the disguise hid his true self as much as his helmet had. But no. That’s not what the helmet represented. The helmet _was_ Din’s true self—a Mandalorian. That was the face all Mando’ade showed to the galaxy.

Not Boba Fett, though.

Nor Bo-Katan, Koska, or Axe. 

Was Din still Mando’ad?

He closed his eyes. He had no time to mourn his old self if he was going to survive this ordeal and save Gorgu. Saving his compatriots and Grogu was the only thing keeping Din from tearing off the uniform and screaming until some Imp just ended his agony with a blaster bolt to his beskarless chest. But Mayfeld was right. He couldn’t do that. For all that he’d lost, he’d also found something. Some _one_. And Grogu needed him now more than ever. 

Resolve strengthened, he rose to his full height and straightened his cap again. Time for Junior Lieutenant Hjalmar Gershom TK-593 to report for duty. And Din would try, _try_ to get through this.

He signed himself out of medbay and was curtly shown on a map where his quarters—Captain Anders’ quarters?—were located. Actually finding them, however, was proving to be a feat. The ship was enormous. And he was concerned that if he wandered into corridors where he didn’t belong, he’d attract unwanted questions. So far, he’d only had to nod at some troopers and other officers as he meandered through one gray, nondescript hallway after another. No one was paying him any mind. He wanted to keep it that way.

Din stepped into a turbolift. He knew he needed to reach Deck 32. But was it Section Alpha or Section Alpha-Alpha? He stared at the buttons on the display. 

“Lost in thought, Sir, or actually lost?” 

Din blinked slowly then turned to the young woman who’d addressed him. She was wearing the same uniform style he was, and she didn’t appear to have too many decorations on her imperial insignia plaque. “Both.”

She chuckled. “You must be new to the _Chimaera_. I’m Sr. Lt. Chanelle Ors.” She stuck out her hand.

Din clasped it, and they shook. Din endured his first skin-to-skin handshake stoically. It actually wasn’t bad. The touch of palms and fingers was warm and congenial. He could do this. “Jr. Lt. Gershom. And yes.”

“Are you one of the survivors we picked up on Morak?” Ors asked animatedly. She was taller than Din, willowy and pale with blond hair slicked back into her cap. Her expression was unguarded, like she had already decided she could relax in Din’s presence. When Din nodded, she continued, “The Grand Admiral runs a tight ship. Next time you have to get somewhere, I’d write down the path, or you might get a demerit if you run into the wrong officer. But I can help you. Where are you headed?”

Din debated whether he should say the brig or not. He’d like to know where his friends were being kept, and he could always resume hunting for his assigned personal quarters later. It was riskier, but he didn’t want to be dependent on Anders, whoever the man really was. “Brig.”

Ors grinned viciously. “You want to look those murderers in the eyes, eh? Avenge your comrades?”

“Something like that,” Din said, trying to keep his voice mild and his eyes steady with Ors’.

It was enough. She punched a series of buttons on the turbolift panel, and it began to move. She continued to chatter with advice about keeping a datapad on his person at all times and sticking to his section of the ship. All of her advice was prudent. Even better, Din could just listen and nod without having to worry about saying the wrong thing. 

The turbolift came to a halt, and Din memorized the deck and section ID. The doors opened into a relatively small vestibule with a circular console and a single helmeted trooper, whose boots were propped up on one of the sensor panels. 

Upon seeing two officers step onto the deck, the trooper scrambled to attention. “Sirs!”

“At ease, Jensen,” Ors greeted, and Din noted that she knew the trooper by name, even though there was nothing visually identifying the trooper that Din could observe. Maybe the trooper was always at this post at this hour. A tight ship indeed. Ors gestured to Din. “This is Lt. Gershom from the Morak facility. He wants to see the traitors.”

“Sure, Ors. Let me just put it in the logs.”

“Thanks. I’ll escort him.” She added slyly, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t claw their eyes out.”

The trooper, Jensen, made a noise of assent or amusement or both.

Din wondered if he should be concerned about his presence being logged, but then decided if neither Ors nor Jensen thought it was odd that he was here, then it was probably okay to use the alibi Ors had supplied.

The trooper glanced between Din and Ors as they made their way around the console to the corridor containing the prisoner holding cells. “Ors, how do you always find the quiet ones who let you do all the talking?”

Ors laughed. “Just lucky, Jens.” 

“All right, you’re good to proceed. They’re all down the left. Cells E2, E5, and E8. Careful with E5. She’s a real piece of work, door-lock or not.”

Din followed Ors down the corridor, and they stopped at E2, where Ors popped open a small panel at face-height to reveal a barred window. They both looked inside. 

Boba Fett. 

Fett looked up at his visitors from where he sat at the back of the cell. “See something you like, sweetheart?”

Din’s eyebrows shot up and his face warmed, though he was fairly sure the comment was directed at Ors. She jabbed Din in the side, and sneered. “Just wanted to see a Mando’s face, that’s all. Nothing special, though, is it, Gershom?”

Fett’s armor was conspicuously absent. And Fett wouldn’t recognize Din without his. But at least Din knew Fett was alive and whole. “Oya,” Din murmured. _Stay alive._

This time, it was Fett’s eyes that widened, though the bounty hunter quickly masked his reaction. 

“What’s that mean?” Ors asked at his side.

Din mentally chastised himself. Subterfuge was much easier when no one could see your face. And he knew better than to speak Mando’a on an imperial Star Destroyer. “It’s a curse. It means . . . cur.” 

“Rabid cur, I hope,” Ors said, accepting Din’s weak explanation. “Come on, let’s see the next one.”

Din shut the small panel and followed Ors to E5, which he presumed would be Cara’s cell. It was. She looked to be in relatively okay health, if a bit bruised, especially under one eye. She stared daggers at them as Ors taunted her. Should he give Cara a secret message? Or just play it safe? 

“I bet she was the one who shot up the rhydonium,” Ors commented. “Look at her stripes! Rebel trash!”

Cara’s eyes narrowed even further, and she leapt off the bench as if she was intending to charge at them. Both Din and Ors flinched. But Cara was shackled to the wall and didn’t make it far. Ors laughed and slammed the panel shut. “I can see why she’s Jensen’s favorite! He loves to remind the so-called New Republic soldiers who they really are. Rebel scum.”

Din nodded tersely and led the way to Shand’s cell, E8. Sure enough, Shand was inside, sitting calmly in a meditative position. She looked better off than Cara, which made Din think Cara’s worst injuries were inflicted _after_ being taken into custody. 

Ors was looking down at a datapad. “Fennec Shand . . . Who’s Fennec Shand?” Ors called into the cell, “Hey you! Are you supposed to be famous or something?”

“Infamous, more like,” Din suggested. “She’s an assassin. The Guild was after her.”

“Oh, a big bounty on her head, eh?” Ors mused. “Maybe you won’t be scheduled for termination, then,” Ors taunted Shand. “Maybe they’ll _sell you_ for credits.”

Din was not surprised when Shand did not react to the bait. “Let’s go.” Din licked his lips and carefully considered his phrasing before he spoke. “The only way out is the way we came in, right?”

“Yep,” Ors confirmed. 

That was unfortunate but expected. Din walked with Ors back to the prisoner security console where Jensen was stationed. 

“How was the freak show?” the trooper asked.

“Boring,” Ors replied, leaning casually against the console. “Except maybe that shock trooper. I’d like to go a few rounds with her in a training salle.”

“She’d kick your ass,” Jensen wagered. 

“No way,” Ors demurred. “She might kick yours, but not mine. How about you, Gershom?”

Din thought back to when Cara had managed to fight him to a draw on Sorgan, even when he was armored. “She could probably take me,” he admitted.

The trooper chortled, and Ors merely humphed. “Well, you were recently injured, right? So it wouldn’t be a fair fight. Besides, she’d never get a one-one-one, since there’s _always_ more of us than of them. That’s what her kind gets for siding with traitors to the Empire.”

The trooper hummed in agreement. 

_Isn’t the Empire defeated?_ Din wanted to ask but didn’t dare. It sure didn’t _feel_ defeated, not while Din was stuck in this ludicrous conversation with his face bared to the universe while standing on the deck of a kriffing Star Destroyer, which was apparently commanded by a surviving Grand Admiral. 

Din was wondering how he was going to gracefully exit the situation when his chronometer beeped on his wrist. He pushed up his sleeve and looked at the notification. 

> _ <<WHERE R U?! REPORT ASAP TO AA.D32.R2186. -C.Anders. >> _

“Bad news?” Ors asked him. 

“Hm?” Din asked, looking up and realizing both Ors and the trooper— _Jensen,_ he might need to remember the name later—were looking at him. He must have been making a face. Schooling his expression had never been something he’d had to learn, and he certainly wasn’t going to master it in a day. “No. Yes. Sorry, I have to go.”

“I’m going to stay here,” Ors told him. “You can find your way this time, right?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Din didn’t linger. He strode back to the turbolift and this time hit the right section letters before selecting the deck. The lift started to move, and Din took a moment to breathe and center himself as streaks of fluorescent light flickered across the gray windows.

Din tried to prepare himself for facing Anders by reviewing what he knew:

On Morak, the man had been in the officer’s mess wearing an officer’s uniform. When the shooting broke out, the man asked to be spared and gave some kind of coded language about the weather on Hoth, which neither Din nor Mayfeld recognized. This had upset and surprised the man, who wondered if they were with the Republic. The man still wanted to go with them, even though they were getting shot at, when he could have stayed hidden behind the metal table as a shield. The man hadn’t hesitated to shoot other Imps during their escape. Mayfeld had been certain the man was a spy for the New Republic. When confronted, the man hadn’t denied it. He’d only lamented that his extraction was late. The man had been quite injured, especially his arm. And even if Din’s rough landing had acted as a cushion, the man still would have taken significant damage after bailing out of a falling ship. 

Din had to admit the most likely scenario after that was that all three of them had been picked up by imperial scouts, and deductions had been made from their uniforms. It was unlikely the man could actually be blamed for Din’s current predicament. Din’s memory of his time in the medbay was somewhat fragmented—partially due to the medication and partially due to his mental . . . lapse—but he remembered the blame and threats he’d hurled. The man had rebuffed Din’s attempts to push him away. 

Then, there was his cryptic message to Din about getting him out and recovering what was lost. It was vague and could be interpreted multiple ways, some better than others.

But Din was alive and pretending to be Lt. Gershom with a real TK number and everything, rather than locked up in the brig. And _that_ appeared to be Anders’ doing. So, at this point, Din was going to have to proceed on the hope that the man really was a spy for the Republic and was willing to use his cover to help Din free himself and his friends so that he could get his mission to rescue Grogu back on track. 

And Din might have to apologize to Mayfeld— _might_ being the operative word. Mayfeld could have been a real dick about seeing Din helmetless back on Morak but, surprisingly, he hadn’t been. He’d even promised to forget he’d seen Din’s face. It didn’t work like that, but Din had appreciated the gesture. 

The turbolift arrived at Din’s stop with no incident, and he made his way down several well-marked corridors with numbered doors, reminiscent of a creepy, after-hours Canto Bight hotel floor. He’d picked up a bounty there once and decided he hated it. 

Din found the door marked R2186 and buzzed for entry. The door hissed opened immediately, and Din was promptly yanked inside. The door shut and locked behind him.

Din was confronted by an irate Captain Anders.

“Where have you been?!” Anders exclaimed. “You were given strict orders to report here immediately upon discharge from medbay.”

Din just stared as the man ran anxious fingers through his dark hair and looked at Din with exasperation, as if he was _actually_ Din’s superior officer to whom Din owned an explanation for his whereabouts. 

Din considered whether he needed to remind Anders that he was not, in fact, an imperial officer at his command.

But at Din’s continued silence, Anders’ puffed up posture eventually dissipated. Anders straddled a chair backwards and propped his head on his hands, which he rested on the back of the chair. “Look,” he began, “I was worried about you. After how you were acting in the medical ward, I’d figured I needed to get you squirreled away as soon as possible. I know you’re a bit . . . confused by the situation we find ourselves in. But you need to trust me.”

“I do,” Din offered tentatively. “To a certain degree.”

“Fair enough,” Anders said. He tipped his head slightly, looking Din up and down. “So, I can see you managed to stop lolling about in bed and get dressed and explore the ship. But how are you? Are you ready for this?”

Din was offended by the comment about his lolling about in bed but, by the same token, he couldn’t really find fault with it from Anders’ perspective. 

How could Did explain that he’d been in mourning because he’d effectively died that day on Morak? And that every breath he took after the one when he’d shown his face to another living being was just the afterlife? 

Aloud, Din said, “That depends what _this is._ Can we talk freely here?” Din asked, waving his hand around the small room. There wasn’t much to it. And everything in it was gray. A metal desk that could double as a dining table. A metal chair. A metal bed frame with a mattress covered in crisp, white sheets. A narrow door that presumably led to a refresher. While Din’s own beskar’gam was a gleaming metal gray, that didn’t mean he hadn’t planned on choosing clan colors for it one day. In the last few months, he’d been leaning towards green. Now, he wasn’t sure that day would ever come. 

Anders shook his head slightly. “Permission to speak freely is denied. Permission to act freely? Granted.”

In other words, the room had audio but not video surveillance. That was highly unfortunate. 

Din’s disappointment must have been written on his face, because Anders’ mouth quirked up. “We’ll make do. It’s all A.I. anyway, so just watch your word choice and it probably won’t trigger anything—not even the fact that we have two different voices to go with our two different faces, though I commend the mustache. Very handsome. It looks almost as good as mine.”

Din heard the words, and the intriguing accent that had made a brief return, but he honed in on the important part. “It _probably_ won’t trigger anything?” he echoed.

Anders grinned, although his mirth didn’t reach his eyes. “Our line of work carries risk. You know that.”

Din wondered if Anders thought Din was a spy, too. “I’m not what you are,” Din clarified. _I’m a Mandalorian,_ he didn’t say, because he wasn’t really, not anymore, or at least not in the Way that counted. “I’m just a man trying to get my kid back.”

“I understand,” Anders assured him. “And I want to help.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a datapad. He tapped in a code, then tossed it to Din. “Put the lost datastick info on there, and I’ll use my clearance to get it.”

“Thank you,” Din said with sincerity. “That would help. A lot.”

“As for the rest,” Anders said, “we’ll meet up with your trooper partner tomorrow. I know a place we can reconnect and, ah, _let loose._ ” 

Din wondered if that was code for talking freely so that they could devise a rescue-and-escape plan. 

Anders rose from the chair and walked toward a compartment that appeared to be some kind of closet. He began to peel off his uniform. 

“Why can’t we go now?” Din asked, not wanting to stay on the ship any longer than he had to. He started to avert his gaze as Anders finished removing his topcoat and moved on to strip off his undershirt, but Din was curious, and Anders didn’t seem to mind. Sleek back muscles stretched as Anders bent over to remove his boots, giving Din a perfect view of Anders’ sculpted backside. 

“Well,” Anders said, keeping his back turned to Din and continuing to remove pieces of his uniform, “for one thing, it’s the middle of the delta shift. That’s ship’s night, and your partner is on duty. He’s fine, by the way, thanks for asking.” Anders paused to shuck off his pants, leaving him in just his small shorts. Except those were then discarded, too, and Din elected to turn around and face the wall in order to give him privacy. He could hear the shuffling of fabric. “For another thing, I need to rest. And so do you. I’m all patched up, but your chart said you’ve got head trauma.”

“I don’t,” Din assured, even as he went to scope out the refresher. Sonic, sink and toilet. Efficient but serviceable. When he reentered the main room, the lights had been dimmed, but Din remained facing away from Anders. “I just had a bad reaction when I woke up here. The medic interpreted it as injury. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” 

Din jumped when Anders’ voice came from a position close enough for his breath to whisper past Din’s ear. A hand on Din’s shoulder followed. It was probably meant to be comforting. Maybe it _was_ rather comforting. The touch was firm, grounding, and the connection reminded Din that he was very much alive, even if he continued to see that fact as debatable. But he shrugged Anders’ hand off and peeked over his shoulder to see that Anders was dressed again, this time in some sleep clothes. But his feet were bare. And something about the domesticity of that struck Din as surreal. Din thought of the single-entry refresher and suddenly thought to ask, “Where’s the other bed?”

“There isn’t one.”

Din took a few paces back. “Why not?” 

“Because that would be counterproductive,” Anders said flippantly. He settled onto the bed and audaciously left enough room for another body. 

“Excuse me?” Din hoped the dimness of the low light hid any flush that may have risen in his cheeks, given how warm his face felt.

“Because you’re a ghost,” Anders elaborated, his voice deepening and becoming more serious. “The less your name and TK number appears in the system, the better. You don’t have a carefully curated backstory like I do, or like your sharpshooting partner does. Plus, he and I are fast talkers. You haven’t exactly impressed me with your ability to roll with the punches out there. You sound better now, improvement noted, but I’ve basically planned to quietly stash you here while I get done what needs doing. Got it?”

“Got it,” Din bit out. In hindsight, it made sense. He thought of how Ran had let him come back because the _Razor Crest_ had been a ghost. _Kriff,_ he missed his ship. He missed a lot of things. He missed Grogu. And that was the real skank in the skug hole, as Cara would say, because Din had come to realize that he would do anything in his shitty de-helmed afterlife to save the kid. 

With no way to vent his pent-up frustration in the increasingly stifling quarters, Din went to the refresher. Angrily, he tore off his uniform, balling it up and throwing it onto the floor. He kicked it for good measure. He hopped into the sonic, and found it unsatisfying compared to a water shower. Afterwards, he leaned over the sink and splashed water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked the same, but he felt different. He knew he _was_ different. He didn’t care what Bo-Katan had said. This wasn’t _the Way._ Being necessary didn’t make it _right._ Being necessary couldn’t remake Din into something he wasn’t anymore.

Din wrapped a towel around his waist and reentered the main room. It was nearly pitch black now, except for a red light humming at the door panel and a blue light humming at a small terminal on the desk. The blue light cast a glow on the discarded datapad. Din picked it up, but it prompted for an access pin, which he didn’t have. He placed it back on the table with a huff. He then went to the closet and found a place to put his discarded clothes. Fresh ones were hanging up, and it would be simple enough to remove the extra pips on Anders’ to make the topcoats work for him, since they seemed similarly sized. He also found what looked like workout clothes, dress uniforms, and sleep clothes. He took some sleep clothes and went back to the refresher to put them on. The shirt and pants were made of a soft, gauzy material. The sleepwear felt _cozy_ when he put it on. Din wasn’t used to wearing anything like that. He liked it. He started thinking about whether he could take a pair with him when he escaped. _If_ he escaped. With a heavy sigh, he exited refresher and approached the bed. 

In the dark, Din felt out the edges of the mattress. Anders had left him plenty of room. Din needed to be well rested if he was going to accomplish the mission, and there simply wasn’t anywhere else to go. Resigned, Din lay down and curled up on his side facing away from Anders. He pulled his half of the sheets over himself. 

Din could hear Anders’ quiet, steady breaths. It occurred to Din that he was bone-tired. And Anders’ warm presence behind him was, admittedly, more pleasant than the sterile chill of the medbay. Din idly wondered what his real name was, since Anders was obviously an alias. But then, Din didn’t hold much stock by names. He was more interested in actions. Whoever Anders was, the man was either playing a _very_ long con or he was actually just trying to do the right thing, like Din was. Deciding to trust the man at his back, between one stuttered breath and the next, Din managed to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Star Wars Translations_  
>  Mando’ad(e) = Mandalorian(s) / Mando’a  
> Mando’a = Mandalorian language /Mando’a  
> Beskar’gam = Beskar armor / Mando’a  
> Oya = Stay alive, Let’s hunt / Mando’a, has multiple positive meanings
> 
>  _Alias Inspirations_  
>  Hjalmar = Helmeted warrior / Old Norse  
> Gershom = Exile / Hebrew, derives from ger sham, meaning "a stranger there."


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din didn’t have any choice but to come to terms with his situation fast and hard. He was adapting. He was _trained_ to adapt—maybe not quite this way, as the Creed was rigid, his Tribe even moreso. But Din was doing his best. And if he couldn’t have the armor back, he’d feel better with a decent weapon in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter contains Sex-before-feelings, Sparring, the weirdest Shower ever, and Strategizing.)

This time, when Din woke up, he felt good. 

He was cocooned in warmth, electric tingles ran up and down his spine, and he was snug in someone’s arms . . . 

_Oh._

Din was aroused, and so was the man behind him, pressed front-to-back all the way along Din’s body. Din was on his side, with his knees tucked up. He was keenly aware of every inch of where Anders’ body was plastered to his, especially the hot brand of Anders’ hardness poking Din’s ass through the thin fabric of their sleep pants. 

The room was completely dark, which highlighted the only sounds being Din’s own uneven breathing and the soft rustling of fabric. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up safe and comfortable enough to want to bring himself off. The desire prickling under his skin was pleasant and made him feel alive. Anders’ arm around him was like an anchor, rooting his restless thoughts to his body’s physical demands. He could picture Anders’ face, his demeanor, and his faith in their charade, which Din wanted to soak up as his own was badly shaken. Din ached to take himself in hand. He probably shouldn’t. But shouldn’ts and couldn’ts had gone out the airlock the last two days, and it was nice to feel connected to someone in a way that brought pleasure rather than pain. And _he_ wasn’t the one draped over someone and starting something without properly seeing to it. Din slid his hand under his pants and curled a fist around his erection, stroking slowly, and biting his cheek to keep from making any sound. 

Was Anders awake? It didn’t seem that way, from the uncoordinated, sporadic jumps of Anders’ cock against his ass. Din wondered if it would feel better if he shifted just a bit, top knee easing further forward, and _yes,_ that angle gave him more room. It also made Anders’ cock nestle further against him. Din continued stroking himself in slow but determined pulls. 

He felt more than heard when Anders’ breathing changed. Anders froze behind him. “Sorry,” Anders whispered and began to pull away.

Din whimpered. He was almost there. Pressure was building under his skin and behind his eyes. He didn’t want to stop, and he didn’t want Anders to leave. He bent his arm in a way that would coax Anders to keep his hand where it was, cradling Din’s sternum. _Stay,_ Din thought but didn’t say. He invitingly pushed back against Anders’ hardness. 

“You sure?” Anders whispered, seeming to need Din to vocalize what he wanted. 

“Please,” Din urged.

Anders accepted Din’s encouragement with a sigh that warmed the back of Din’s neck. The breath was followed by a gentle press of lips to the same spot. Din sped up his hand’s movements as Anders’ began to move against him with purpose. Din pushed down his sleep pants to get a better grip on his shaft, and Anders shifted behind him, sliding smoothly now in the tight pocket Din made for him between his cheeks and thighs. Din could feel slickness dampening the sleep pants and seeping into Din’s sweat-soaked skin as Anders’ erection dragged against him. 

Din groaned as he came, and he heard an answering whimper from Anders as he was gently nudged forward, nearly onto his stomach in an awkward position that trapped his left arm, but Din was too sated to adjust himself. He just listened to Anders’ whispered crooning as Anders mouthed the back of Din’s neck and thrust a few more times before pulling back and coming in his own hands. 

Both men rolled to lay on their backs, waiting for their breathing to even out. 

Neither of them said anything, for which Din was grateful. Maybe it should have been more awkward, but it just felt good, and the easing of the tension in his limbs and mind left Din floating. 

But he needed to get up and keep pretending: pretending to be an Imp and pretending his life as he knew it hadn’t ended on Morak. That sounded more grim than he meant. He knew he was alive. The smell of sex was living proof—reassurance that Din still functioned. He matched his breathing to Anders’ like a metronome.

A few heartbeats later, Din rose from the bed. He padded over to the refresher, where the automatic light turned on too brightly, the mirror capturing his face in an unflattering flush. He missed his helmet, which filtered out abrupt changes in light by design. After relieving himself, he turned on the faucet and cleaned his hands, face, and teeth, then took a quick sonic. He grabbed the other remaining towel and wrapped it around himself before returning to the main room. 

Anders had turned on the lights, and he was sitting up in the bed looking at the datapad with the sheets pooled around his hips. He looked up when Din came in, gave Din a half-smile, then went to take his turn in the refresher.

As soon as Anders was out of the room, Din scooped up the datapad and, sure enough, the auto-lock function hadn’t yet engaged. Anders might offer the access code if Din requested it, but then he might not. The profile showed the device was assigned to a Captain Mogen Anders, and the hologram portrait matched the man in the refresher. Din clicked on the icon, and was surprised to see an extensive service record, complete with battle engagements, promotions, awards, and postings. For a spy, this was very detailed. Din selected postings. The current post was the _Chimaera_ , and it indicated Anders was in command of two officers transferred from Morak: Jr. Lt. Hjalmar Gershom, that was Din, and Sr. Lt. Osc Ramm, who must be Mayfeld. Din paged through the rest of the datapad’s contents, looking for any keywords related to system coordinates or prisoner manifests, but the interface wasn’t familiar to him. And whatever Anders’ clearance level was, a lot of things Din tried to click on wouldn’t open. Din was a fair pilot and a good enough mechanic, but he was no expert in cybersecurity. He’d have to trust Anders on that front. It was frustrating. Din could usually get himself out of most scrapes. Self-sufficiency was key to his survival as a bounty hunter. He wasn’t accustomed to having to rely on anyone else quite this much. Din powered down the datapad and went to get dressed.

Din was halfway into an officer’s uniform when Anders called out from the refresher, “Put on some training gear.”

He must mean the workout clothes. Maybe they were going to meet Mayfeld someplace where officers exercised or trained for battle. Din found soft black slacks and a soft gray tee. The clothes weren’t much different from the sleepwear, but the fabric was wicked for moisture absorption. The clothes were much more comfortable than the stiff officer’s uniform. 

“Hey!” Anders called out again. “You took all the towels!”

Din searched the room but only found the towel he’d just used. It was slightly damp. The other towel he’d put down the laundry chute the night before, and it was gone. He went to the door to the refresher. _Should he knock?_ Din’s familiarity with social situations like this was rusty, if not wholly lacking. With shared quarters, he would usually be focused on maintaining his adherence to the Creed, maneuvering around the helmet issue so that he could keep his privacy. There was no privacy on an imperial warship. Moreover, Din had removed his helmet, so his privacy was a moot point. As for Anders, the man had already stripped in front of Din and they’d already had sex, so Din decided to just march in and deliver the towel.

Anders was standing nude in front of the sink, brushing his teeth. In the light, his body was lean and toned, like Din’s, if maybe slightly less muscular. Unlike Din, the dark hair on his head was accompanied by a smattering of dark hair on his chest that trailed down his flat stomach to his pelvis and groin. His cock was soft now, not huge not but not small either, and Din thought about how good it had felt sliding against his own skin.

Anders glanced sideways at Din and held out a hand, and Din gave him the towel. “Sorry, it’s a little damp.”

“Izz fine,” Anders said around a mouthful of toothpaste. 

Din lingered as Anders spit out excess toothpaste and gargled a mouthful of water. He then washed his face and used the towel to dry pat himself dry. Din was still staring at him when he stopped drying himself and looked up at Din from beneath lowered lashes. Din’s eyes were drawn to his lips, which were smirking at him. “Enjoying the view? And that was a nice way to wake up, by the way.”

Din nodded and contemplated the accent that was back on Anders’ tongue. “Fest?” Din asked, curious if he’d guessed Anders’ homeworld correctly.

“Not here.” The smirk faltered, though Anders’ eyes were still shining. “Too specific.”

“Right. Sorry,” Din hastened to say. Espionage seemed like such a roundabout way to accomplish anything. Din had always had better success by barging in, blaster drawn. 

Anders promptly tossed the towel at Din’s face and brushed past him on the way back to the main room. 

Anders grabbed an officer’s uniform from the closet rather than workout clothes. “I’ve got a debriefing, and then we’ll rendezvous with my other lost duckling.”

He must mean Mayfeld—not that Anders looked any older than Din or Mayfeld. He looked about the same age as Din. “Who is fine, thanks for asking?” Din parroted from before.

“That’s the one,” Anders agreed cheerfully. “Do you not like him much? He seems capable.”

“He’s . . . “ Din trailed off. “Capable is a fitting description.”

Anders cinched his belt and reached for his cap. “But you don’t _like_ him.”

“I didn’t say that,” Din countered.

Anders pulled the brim of his cap down. “It would help if you did.”

That was puzzling. Trying to interpret the spy’s cryptic words was like solving riddle after riddle. “Why?”

Anders picked up his datapad and moved towards the door. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out.” 

“What do I even do while you’re gone?” Din heard the whine in his voice and hated it.

“Stay here,” Anders answered. “I won’t be long.” Anders opened the door and stepped out. Before the door closed, he seemed to have second-thoughts and stepped back in. He pointed a finger at Din. “I mean it. Stay put.” 

Din held his palms up. “I heard you. I’ll stay here.”

“Will you though?” Anders asked, pushing the issue, as he reentered the room fully and let the door close. “You seem . . . different than you did on Morak. Or in the medbay, for that matter. I have the worst feeling that I’m going to come back here before the beta shift to find out you’ve gotten yourself scheduled to be terminated.”

Anders looked genuinely worried, but Din didn’t know what to say to reassure him. “I’ll stay here,” he repeated. 

Din understood what Anders meant about him being different. He thought about how he’d acted in front of Anders on Morak when he’d first had to remove his helmet in front of Imps. He’d been nearly paralyzed by a potent blend of grief and terror. The lump in his throat that wanted to burst out as a cry had made it almost impossible to form words. And he knew his expression had likely flicked back and forth between sadness, shock, and blank numbness. It was only _after_ Mayfeld had shot Valin Hess and given Din the trooper helmet to put back on that he’d snapped into combat readiness. Thinking of Grogu being experimented on again by Imps had helped him pull it together to get the job done. 

As for how he’d been when Anders found him in the medbay, Din recalled coming to terms with his decision to remove the helmet through a drugged haze. No matter how many other Mandalorians Din met or would meet, he was raised in the Way of the Mand’alor. Abandoning that path, even for good cause, meant a death of his old self and a rebirth into someone new. It wasn’t a matter of regret, no, but there had been anger and plenty of it. Mayfeld had been an easy target for that anger. Anders, too. 

But now? Din was trying to settle into his unshelled existence at hyperspeed. Forced to pretend to be a thing he hated, Din didn’t have any choice but to come to terms with his situation fast and hard. He was adapting. He was _trained_ to adapt—maybe not quite this way, as the Creed was rigid, his Tribe even moreso. But Din was doing his best. The past was the past, and now the only way forward was _through_. So he was trying to embrace it—this life after his true life—in all its chaotic fervor. 

Din stared purposely at Anders, striving to establish the kind of eye contact that begets trust, the kind of natural connection that everyone in his past said couldn’t translate from behind his helmet. “I’ll stay here,” he said yet again. It would have to be enough.

Anders was the first to blink, his lashes fluttering closed. “All right,” he said softly. 

Din watched Anders leave, and wondered if there wasn’t something to Karga’s often-said proverb that eyes were like windows to the soul. It had never rung true to Din before. But he suddenly longed to lock eyes with his friends, like Cara, and especially, if could reach him again, Grogu. The hope that he’d be able to do so one day transcended the gloom of the four gray walls locking Din in imperial purgatory. 

<><><><><><><><><>

Din was practically bouncing on his heels by the time Anders had returned and swapped out his uniform for black pants and a black tee. Din had resisted the urge to go wandering and stayed put as promised. It helped that he had already secured the prisoner information for Cara, Fett, and Shand before, so he could sit on that information like a woodoo perching on its egg.

Finally, they were heading to a place where they could talk without the ever-present recording devices that seemed to be installed in every nook and cranny of the ship. 

Din was anxious to nail down the mission parameters: _secure the coordinates to Gideon’s light cruiser; free Fett, Cara, and Shand; retrieve his armor; and commandeer a ship and get the_ kriff _out of there._

The list was long. But it could be done. It _had_ to be done.

Anders led Din through two different turbolifts and down numerous winding corridors. Din attempted to commit the path to memory, but he was wired with unspent energy and the route kept slipping out of his brain. 

At last, they arrived at the kind of destination Din had predicted: a training gym. There were multiple rooms filled with weights and machines. Din saw a running track and a pool. He noted a few doors leading presumably to different locker rooms. Then, there were weapons rooms. The salles piqued Din’s interest, as he observed racks of staffs, spears, and other combat instruments. Weapon mastery was an integral to the Creed as wearing the helmet. And if he couldn’t have the armor back, he’d feel better with a decent weapon in his hand.

The facility wasn’t crowded. There were Imps here and there, some alone and some in small groups. Din wondered why this part of the ship wasn’t monitored, if indeed it wasn’t. But no, upon closer inspection, he saw more blinking red lights in the ceiling panels of each room. 

Anders seemed to be headed to a particular salle. He tapped a code into the console on the glass observation wall, and the door closed behind them when they entered and stepped onto the mat. 

“Might as well stretch,” Anders suggested, toeing off his boots at the edge of the mat. “We’ll be putting on a good show before we can talk.”

Nothing Anders said ever made sense the first time around. But Din was willing to go along with it, provided this detour actually ended with a chance to coordinate a solid escape plan. Din removed his boots, too, and began to stretch his limbs in preparation for some kind of fight. 

His eyes were drawn to Anders’ form as the man stretched in different positions, displaying how limber he was. Anders’ feet were spread and he was bent nearly in half, peeking at Din from between his own legs. Anders gave him a wry grin.

Din’s admiring was interrupted by a ping at the salle’s door.

“That’ll be your friend.”

Din thought ‘friend’ was generous, but he tapped the console to allow entry. 

Mayfeld stepped into the training salle, and the door closed behind him. He looked around, nodding. “So this is the plan? I get to kick his ass around the mats,” Mayfeld gestured to Din, “and then we hit the lockers?”

Din scoffed. But Anders quipped, “Basically, yeah.”

Din crossed his arms over his chest, assessing Mayfeld. Mayfeld was wearing his uniform pants with a black undershirt. He had a blaster in his holster, which he unwound from his waist and stowed near the wall along with his boots. If they were going to spar, Din should probably clear the air by apologizing for breaking (or nearly breaking?) Mayfeld’s arm in the medbay. He didn’t want a reenactment of their fight on the prison ship. They were supposed to be allies here. But then, they were supposed to have been allies back on the prison ship, too. “Do you need to stretch?” Din asked him. 

Mayfeld rolled his shoulders and neck, and Din heard muscles crack and pop. Din wasn’t looking forward to tussling with him without the protection of his armor, which he was used to training with even against other Mandalorians in the covert. 

“Nah, I just came from target practice,” Mayfeld said, already stalking around Din. “I’m ready for our rematch.”

“A friendly spar,” Anders supplied, standing up and approaching as well. 

Anders was evidently clueless about Din and Mayfeld’s spotty history. Mayfeld must have told Anders about his prior imperial service, but had Mayfeld said anything about the betrayal on the prison ship and how Din had ensured Mayfeld had gotten what he deserved? Had he explained the arrangement that had led to Mayfeld helping Din break into the Morak facility, and Cara’s plan to dump him back in New Republic prison? Had he told Anders about Din being a Mandalorian? 

Before Din had lashed out in the medbay, he and Mayfeld had seemed to reach some kind of understanding on Morak. Din couldn’t help but think back on how Mayfeld’s clever tongue had bought him much-needed time when he’d been confronted by Hess, and how Mayfeld had gone from teasing him about wanting to see his eyes to promising never to tell a soul about having actually done so. But looking at him now, at the aggression in his stance and eyes, Din sensed the ceasefire had been merely that: a stopgap. Din didn’t know what the man had been going through the last few days, but he was sure it wasn’t good.

“What are the ground rules?” Din asked, taking a defensive position.

“No weapons,” Anders said.

Din wrinkled his nose and stared longingly at the row of wooden staffs along the far wall. It wasn’t that he wasn’t fully capable in hand-to-hand combat. Rather, he felt more like himself when he had a weapon in his hands.

“Keep it clean and put on a good show.” Anders said, jerking his chin towards the glass observation wall, where Din could see a few interested faces on Imps passing by. 

But Mayfeld was already moving in, sending a punch flying at Din’s face. 

Din raised his arms to block the attack.

Mayfeld punched again, and Din blocked again. Mayfeld followed with an uppercut, which Din also blocked, but its impact was hard enough to destabilize him. Mayfeld swept at his legs, and Din dodged. 

Mayfeld then used his greater mass to catch Din in a choke hold. Din dug his fingers into Mayfeld’s arms to dislodge him. When that didn’t work, he changed tactics and leaned _into_ Mayfeld’s hold. That gave Din the space to wiggle out of his grasp. But as Din was busy slipping free, Mayfeld kicked his knee. _Hard_. 

With a grunt, Din crumpled forward. But he used the momentum to heft Mayfeld up and over his shoulders. Arm muscles straining, Din threw him forward.

Mayfeld hit the mat with a muffled thud. 

Din was about to advance on Mayfeld, when Anders charged at Din from behind. “Look alive, Gershom!”

Anders encircled him with his arms and shoved him forward. Din allowed himself to be moved, then got his feet properly planted beneath him so that he could squat and push _up_ and _back_. He tossed Anders behind him and followed through to slam backwards with his full weight, crushing Anders onto the mat. If he’d been wearing his armor, Anders’ chest might have been crushed. As it was, Din knew he was only winded.

Before Din could get up, Mayfeld hemmed him in again. Din kicked out at Mayfeld from his position atop Anders. 

Mayfeld avoided Din’s kicks, but was kept from getting too close. Din used the opportunity to scramble to his feet and get his fists in front of him to block Mayfeld’s next forward advance. 

The advance didn’t come, because Anders had managed to get in a good kick at Mayfeld’s stomach. Mayfeld chuffed, then charged at Anders. 

Anders evaded with an elegant spin worthy of a Twi that landed him on his feet and out of reach. Mayfeld switched his attention back to Din, throwing out a sharp jab. _Dank farrik!_ The jab would have been absorbed by a beskar pauldron but, at present, it caught Din right in the shoulder. Din sucked in air through his teeth, but barreled forward instead of back, hoping to surprise Mayfeld with an offensive tact. 

Din grabbed Mayfeld’s bare head with both hands and _thunked_ his head into Mayfeld’s in a brutal kov’nyn. 

Mayfeld cried out, but Din was the most shell-shocked by the headbutt. He staggered, gripping Mayfeld for balance. 

They both slumped to the mat. 

“You idiot,” Mayfeld panted, halfheartedly shoving at Din and rubbing his head. “That shit only works when you’re wearing the helmet.”

“Yep,” Din conceded blandly, still leaning a bit against Mayfeld. That move, though it had ended the match, had _not_ been worth the ache it produced in his skull. 

“We good?” Mayfeld asked, addressing Anders.

Anders made a clucking sound with his tongue. “If I had known you two were literally going to bash each other’s heads in, I might have gone about this differently. But yeah, we’re done here.”

When Mayfeld stood up, Din let himself flop onto the map. His head kriffing _hurt._ “Come on,” Mayfeld said above him, grabbing him by his bicep and hoisting him to a standing position. 

Din only wobbled a little. He tried to rebalance and found himself chest to chest with Mayfeld. Din looked at him a little dazedly. 

“I don’t know about you, but _I_ feel better,” Mayfeld told him pleasantly. 

_Typical,_ Din thought, rolling his eyes.

“Let’s get going,” Anders called from the doorway. 

They retrieved their shoes and gear. Din limped along with help from Mayfeld, and the three of them made a beeline for one of the locker rooms. 

“Please tell me they have water showers here,” Din grumbled, wiping his hair back from his sweaty forehead and ducking out from Mayfeld’s support to find his own bearings. 

Mayfeld laughed. 

Din noticed that a few heads turned to observe the three of them. Some glances were appraising. 

Anders led them through a locker room that had all the expected appointments. Anders stopped at one of the rows of benches and shelves and promptly pulled his shirt over his head. Mayfeld followed suit. 

As Din just stood there, they both kicked off their boots, and _were they really just going to . . . ?_ Yes, pants and undershorts followed suit. Neither man was watching Din, both just gathering their discarded clothes and tossing them in a bin at the end of the row. Din stared blankly at Mayfeld’s ass—gleaming with perspiration, too, just like his sweat-shined head—as he turned the corner and walked away. Anders began to depart after him, but half-turned to face Din. Din had already seen Anders nude, but it was no less titillating the second time. 

“Come on,” Anders prompted.

He was waiting for Din.

Din was still dressed in his sweaty training clothes. 

Public nudity in the covert was uncommon. Even after group training sessions, personal hygiene was usually handled in the privacy of individual stalls and rooms so that helmets could be removed. 

Din brought his hands to the hem of own shirt and pulled it up over his head. Anders seemed to take that as indication that Din would eventually follow and proceeded to leave in the same direction Mayfeld had gone.

But Din’s hands hovered at the waistband of his pants. He took an unsteady breath and forced himself to not to overthink. It was different from what he was used to, but he was essentially living in the barracks of an _army_. Its soldiers were instruments. Concepts like personal space, or even personal wishes at all, had no place here. As far as the Empire was concerned, it _owned_ Din’s body. It didn’t, of course. Din was an imposter among the crew of this ship. And if Din was uncomfortable at the thought of getting undressed in front of his own allies, then what must Cara be going through? Or Boba Fett? Fett may not have worn the armor at all times, may have shown his face without forswearing his place among a tribe, but that didn’t make the yoke of imprisonment sit any lighter on his shoulders. Compared to that, Din could take off his kriffing pants and take a shower with other men. 

Din yanked down his pants and kicked off his boots. 

Someone whistled. 

Din’s head shot up. A naked woman had paused at the end of the row, and she winked at him as she walked by.

Right. A shower with other _people_ then.

Din dumped his clothes in the bin and followed the woman down a short hall, which opened up into a large, open shower room. 

Maybe it wasn’t good shower etiquette, but years of training made Din survey the room to assess potential threats. 

Eight people. Eight very naked people. 

Din had been bounty hunting all across the known galaxy. He’d been in his fair share of backroom sex clubs, casino honeymoon suites, and various dens in inquiry. But the main difference between those times and now was that Din was always in a full suit of armor. Now, he was just as exposed as those around him. Well, maybe not quite as exposed as the man getting fucked against the wall to Din’s left. Din’s eyes flicked to the ceiling—no blinking red lights in _this_ room. 

Understanding dawned, and Din stepped nimbly around a man who was jerking himself off under a spray of water and past the couple ferociously going at it to his side, until he found Mayfeld and Anders, who were both washing up under adjacent showerheads. The sound of rushing water covered up nearly every sound in the room except the occasional moan. They could talk here.

“Hey, Mando.”

“Mayfeld.”

Din stood under the spray of the shower on the other side of Anders, who was scrubbing his hair. “I’m Cassian. Cassian Andor.”

_Cassian Andor,_ Din tested the name out in his head. “So you _are_ a spy?”

Cassian turned to grin roguishly at him. “One of the best. You have a good ear, by the way. I was born on Fest. As for you, he called you Mando twice now. You’re a Mandalorian?” Cassian sounded surprised. Din thought of the close quarters they’d been sharing and how he wasn’t exactly embodying the usual Mandalorian mystique. No wonder the man was surprised. 

“I was,” Din answered shortly. 

Cassian’s eyes flicked towards him apologetically. “I just need to know what skills we’re working with here.”

That made sense. And so did the sparring session. Cassian was assessing them as much as Din was assessing _him._

“Don’t mind Brown Eyes. He’s just touchy on that subject,” Mayfeld interjected. “But he’s a hell of a fighter. Morak was actually an off day for him.”

“Good,” Cassian said, soaping up his chest. “And we got to the roof okay in the end. I was going to fall if he hadn’t caught me, first on the ledge and then on the ship.” 

Din decided to get right to business. “I need those coordinates to Moff Gideon.”

“I’ve got ‘em,” Cassian said. His eyes were closed as he turned his face upward into the water stream. Din was struck by an insane desire to lick the droplets off Cassian’s jawline above the neat line of his facial hair. 

Din’s relief at having the coordinates was palpable. He leaned his head against the wall, out of the spray of the water, and clenched his fist. He was going to get Grogu back. And Moff Gideon was going to pay. 

A hand touched his balled fist, jolting Din out of his thoughts. It was Mayfeld. “Mando, this ain’t a private conference room. You’ve got to at least pretend to get clean or fuck or somethin’.”

Din wanted to snap at Mayfeld to mind his own business. But if Din got caught acting suspiciously, Mayfeld would be deep in it, too. Din surreptitiously scanned the room and, sure enough, a few eyes were sneaking skeptical glances at him as he just stood against the wall doing nothing. _Fine._

Din made the mistake of incautiously pushing Mayfeld’s hand away and turning at the same time, which caused Mayfeld’s hand to brush first against Din’s hip and then his cock. Din bit back a gasp. His face flamed, and blood started pooling south as his cock took an interest in the proceedings despite himself. 

Mayfeld only chuckled. “Shit, Mando, if that’s all it takes, we’ll have to get creative to justify stayin’ here till we get pruney.”

Anders—no, _Cassian—_ hummed something that sounded dubiously like agreement. He put a hand on Mayfeld’s shoulder, redirecting him until he was facing Din. “Did you find us a ship?”

“Yeah,” Mayfeld replied, his breath puffing over Din’s shoulder. “It wasn’t easy to find something to hold more people than a Tie. But she’s lambda class. Ready to fly. Just gotta help two crewmen into a nice nap before we dip from the hangar.”

As Mayfeld spoke, Cassian was slowly maneuvering Din to face the wall again, his head out of the shower spray. When Cassian encouraged Din to place both of his hands on the wall and lean forward, requiring Din to shuffle his legs further apart, Din suddenly wondered what the kriff they were doing. His heart thundered inside his chest. This was different from the intimacy he’d shared with Anders this morning. That was . . . This was something else. He opened his mouth to protest, but his throat was too dry. 

Din’s ability to form coherent words didn’t get any easier when Cassian slipped between the barely-there space between Din and the slick wall and began to slide down, using Din’s thighs to steady himself.

“Location?” Cassian prompted Mayfeld to continue.

“Hangar 5. Bay 4. I’m trying to get them to park it at Bay 1, but whatever. It’s close enough.”

“That’s perfect,” Cassian praised from between Din’s legs on the floor. His face was horribly, tantalizingly close to Din’s hardening cock, which Din couldn’t will to stay down no matter how much he tried. 

“I couldn’t get the prisoner manifest, though. Security on this boat is tighter than a Wookie’s exhaust port.” 

“Blame it on the Grand Admiral,” Cassian complained.

Din felt his right hip taken in a firm grasp. It wasn’t Cassian. Mayfeld’s other hand came up to press on Din’s upper back, tilting him even further forward, the angle making his hips angle backwards towards Mayfeld behind him. Din squinted his eyes shut, realizing how compromising of a position they were in. He opened his eyes to glance around the part of the shower room he could see and recognized the woman from earlier. She was pressed up against the wall by another woman, and the two were kissing. More than kissing. They were practically devouring each other. For a second, the woman’s eyes locked with Din’s. She grinned and writhed harder against her partner. Din’s cock throbbed, and he whimpered when he looked down and saw his traitorous cock nearly brush Cassian’s cheek. 

Cassian obviously noticed, but he was still talking, his voice loud enough to be heard but his register low and rough enough to send another jolt of arousal through Din’s body. “I thought the Force wasn’t with us when we ended up on _his_ ship. He’s the most dangerous remnant leader out there. We’ve got to be extra careful.”

Mayfeld wasn’t touching Din anywhere except the hand on his hip and the hand on his back, but he was subtly rocking Din’s body back and forward in a parody of sex. “We don’t need the Force. We just need good blasters.”

“So we move tonight,” Cassian said, his tongue darting out to catch a water droplet, and Din had never wanted lips around his cock more. And Cassian was _right there._ “Beta deck 18 at 21:00, we spring the locks, use the garbage chute exit down to the hangar, and hit Bay 4, going in hot.”

Through the haze of confused arousal, Din managed to chime in with some useful intel. “Can’t use the chute. They plugged it. Apparently someone pulled that trick before. Only one way in and out of the holding cells.”

Cassian frowned up at him. “Since when?”

“Since I asked, when I went to check on my team after my discharge from medbay.” Din repeated from memory. “E2, E5, E8. Fett, Dune, Shand.”

Fingers curled on Din’s hip. “They in shape to fight?”

“When I saw them, yes.”

“I’ll bring extra blasters,” Cassian added.

“There’s only one trooper guard at o’one hundred.”

“Then that’s when we’ll strike. Mando and I will spring the prisoners, then exit through the turbolift shaft. Let the lift go up, while we rappel down. Mayfeld, you make sure that shuttle is imp-free, prepped and fueled,” Cassian ordered. “The five of us will meet you there. It’ll have to be quick.”

“There’s one more thing,” Din said, forcing his mind off of Cassian’s tempting face and back on the mission planning. “I have to get my armor.”

Mayfeld groaned behind him. The drawn out, guttural sound absolutely did _not_ make Din feel any kind of way. “Not this shit again,” Mayfeld rebuked. “You’re leaving it.”

Din shook his head. It was as if ice water had suddenly been poured on him. In his mind’s eyes, he recalled the sacrilegious pile of helmets and armor plating in the sewers of Nevarro. This time, the Armorer wasn’t around to salvage and honor what was left behind in the wake of imperial destruction. “I won’t. I can’t.” Din’s legs went weak, as he thought again of his recent failures. The devastation he brought on the covert. The anguish of knowing that even if he found any survivors, _he_ couldn’t be counted as one of them anymore. He’d sacrificed _everything._ A choked sob escaped him, and he felt Cassian easing him to the floor, where let his head hang down, chin glued to his chest. He was glad that any tears would be washed away by the rivulets of water soaking his face.

Someone hesitantly pet his hair. 

“Kriff, Mando, way to bring a man down. And I do mean the little general, too.”

Din perceived Cassian and Mayfeld rearranging their ridiculous trio to accommodate his decision to languish on his knees on the cushioned tile floor. Mayfeld was now with his back to the wall, and Cassian had flipped around to face him while remaining at Din’s side, his body blocking Din’s from most prying eyes. 

“Get out,” Cassian was snapping at someone outside of Din’s range of vision.

“Aw, come on, he doesn’t need _both_ of you lapping at his dick.”

“Sure I do!” Mayfeld’s tone lacked its usual bite.

“They’re both _my officers,_ so clear this kriffing room unless you want to be on morgue duty for a month!” Cassian snarled. 

Din heard shuffling of bare feet and a retreating shout, “You suck, Cap!” Then all he could hear was the roar of the showers and the thundering of his own thoughts. 

Cassian’s palm cupped Din’s chin, his thumb caressing the rough stubble of Din’s latest attempt to grow a beard. “What am I missing? What’s wrong? I don’t want to rush you, but if we need to change the plan, we need to know it now. Tell me about the armor. Quickly.”

As Din basked in Cassian’s urgent but calm confidence, his own embarrassment grew, just like his list of screw-ups. So he couldn’t put the armor back on, even if he found it. So what. It was done. He’d chosen this path. It’s not like he’d been held down in an E-block cell and had the thing ripped off by Imps. He just wished he had more time to get used to it, that’s all. Time to mourn and bury his old self before having to move on. The kid needed more than a ghost still tethered to its past life. 

“Mando,” Cassian prodded.

“It’s Din.” 

“All right. Din.”

Din looked at Cassian, and realized the man was crouching over him in an uncomfortable stoop, the incessant pressure of the shower raining over him as he attempted to block as much of the spray from Din as he could. But the loss of all the warmth was making Din shiver. Unthinking, he reached for Cassian, wanting to be enveloped in the man’s heat and strength. 

Cassian hesitated at first. 

Din belatedly remembered they were naked, and let the hand he’d wound around Cassian’s neck drop to the floor.

But Cassian seemed to change his mind and embraced Din fully. Despite the strangeness of the situation, despite the setting, the other company, and the sheer absurdity of it all, it was maybe the best hug Din could ever remember receiving. Din clutched Cassian to him, as if he could absorb some of Cassian’s strength to bolster himself. Cassian returned the intensity of Din’s hold, as if he had resilience to spare and keep them both afloat if Din faltered. Din might not be used to needing to lean on someone, but he was beginning to be glad that if he had to it was Cassian. 

The idle roving of Cassian’s fingers over Din’s wet, chilled skin was interrupted by Mayfeld’s threat to more interlopers.

“This room’s taken. Get the fuck out.”

“Frickin’ fine, geez. Sleemo.”

Din inhaled deeply then exhaled slowly. “I cannot leave the Mandalorian armor to be desecrated.”

Cassian nodded but aloud said, “Din, it’s _ungettable._ If it helps, Thrawn won’t melt it down or sell it off in pieces or anything. He’s obsessed with the cultural artifacts of the Empire’s enemies. He’s got an archive full of the stuff.” 

“Then I’ll break into the archive and get it,” Din declared. 

Cassian rose to his feet and offered Din a hand up. “It’s just not possible. Because now we’re stealing _four_ things: the prisoners _and_ the armor. It’s going to get us killed. The priority should be on the living people: your friends, who are scheduled for termination by the way, and your kid.”

Din heard him, understood even, but maintained his position. “It’s not a matter of choosing between mission priorities. Getting the armor will help me. It’s what I’m trained for.” _And if I don’t,_ he thought, _I’ll never have to decide whether I can put it back on again, because the Armorer will never make me a new set. I might never wear Mandalorian armor again._

“He’s not wrong,” Mayfeld volunteered. “I’ve seen him kick some serious ass in that getup. If he wears it, it would actually help in the rescue.” 

Din gave him a look of gratitude. 

But Cassian was pacing. “It’s ungettable,” he repeated. “Thrawn is too big of a risk. Thank the Force he doesn’t know all of my aliases yet.”

Din thought about pointing out that Cassian wasn’t in charge and couldn’t tell Din what to do. But they were _all_ taking risks here. Even Mayfeld. And Cassian had been sticking his neck out for Din since the moment he fired his blaster at the Imps on Morak. Din needed Cassian on his side. They all needed to work as a team. “Please,” Din said softly.

Cassian sighed heavily. “Fine. Mayfeld, get me a code cylinder _before_ delta shift.”

“Where the fuck am I supposed to get that?”

“I don’t care. Trade for it.” Cassian sounded weary. Din knew he was putting a lot on him. Cassian might be an experienced spy, but Din kept changing the mission parameters on him, not to mention running the gamut of emotional outbursts that must be throwing the man for a loop. Cassian pointed to Mayfled. “Cylinder. Ship.” He pointed to Din. “Armor. Prisoners. Then, everyone to Hangar 5.”

“And then we get shot out of the sky,” Mayfeld muttered. _“Again.”_

At that, Cassian grinned dangerously. “Not when _I’m_ flying.”

Din cleared his throat, though he was captivated by the change in Cassian’s mood. The cockiness was back, and it looked good on him. Still, he spoke up, “I’m a fair pilot. I should—”

Cassian cut him off with two fingers on his lips. “Not a chance.”

Cassian’s self-assured tone brooked no room for argument. Din couldn’t say he wasn’t buoyed by the certainty that Cassian exuded about his piloting skills. Din’s steps as they departed the shower felt lighter. Maybe this harebrained scheme would actually succeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star Wars Translations  
> Kov’nyn = Mandalorian headbutt, Keldabe kiss / Mando’a


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, and here’s an interesting entry in your medical chart. R-7 noted that when you were recovering from bacta immersion you were rambling something about a child?"

“And now we wait,” Cassian proclaimed as they entered their quarters. 

“I hate waiting,” Din disclosed, sitting down on the mattress. He kicked his legs restlessly. “I want to _do_ something.”

Cassian sat down next to him, thigh to thigh. “We _are_ doing something. And then we’ll be transferring off this ship and proceeding onto our next mission.”

Din let his head rest on Cassian’s shoulder and felt slightly giddy when Cassian didn’t push him away but instead carded his fingers through Din’s hair. 

“I can’t just wait,” Din told him, knowing Cassian was referring to his quest to save Grogu. “I need something to do.”

“Just a distraction?” Cassian asked. The hands in Din’s hair fell away.

Din shifted to face him. The man looked beautiful and a little sad. “No, not a distraction. Not a _diversion._ Something to connect to. Someone to connect with.” Din moved his fingers to trace up and down Cassian’s bare arm, and he felt the goosebumps rise as Cassian shivered under his touch.

Cassian sighed. “I’m not always good at connecting with people.”

Din dismissed the idea with a snort. A person didn’t live long as a spy if they lacked people skills.

“No, really,” Cassian insisted, fingers finding Din’s and tangling them together. “I’m good at reading people, sure. But the other stuff, the messy stuff that you’re talking about, I’ve always tended to avoid. Getting close to someone, knowing the risk that you or they might not survive…” Cassian exhaled. “A man can get hurt that way.”

“But you’re already hurting,” Din said, and he knew it was true. “So am I. And I think this could be better. I think this will be something _good._ Don’t you want something good, here in this place where everything is so . . . wrong?”

Din wasn’t trying to wear him down. He stopped there and rose to his feet, separating to give Cassian space. When Cassian didn’t say anything, it did hurt. Cassian was right. 

Din started to walk away. But Cassian grabbed his hand and tugged him back to bed. “Come here.”

Cassian lifted Din’s hand and pressed his lips to it. 

Din didn’t know how his whole body could react to such a small point of contact, but his lungs filled with air, and he shuddered with anticipation.

Cassian then pulled Din in and brought their lips together. Another first in the long line of firsts this week, but it was the best one yet. The soft press of supple skin was intimate and tender. Din sighed into the kiss. The slip and push of their mouths against each other grew more heated, the flame of it coiling deliciously in Din’s stomach and setting his groin on fire. His heart pounded inside his chest in time with Cassian’s. 

Kissing had never been part of Din’s repertoire. But now that it was, he discovered that he could keep kissing Cassian all day, kept on the knife’s edge of teasing pleasure. But Cassian’s lips began seeking other skin, kissing a line across Din’s face that ended with a nibble at his ear. Din groaned and shoved his hand at his lap to press down against his cock, trapped in his pants, as he imagined the tongue tracing the shell of his ear licking somewhere else.

Din tried wriggling out of his pants as Cassian dipped him further back onto the mattress, weight pressing Din down. Cassian’s lips roved across his neck and stopped to bite and suck at the skin just below the spot where the neckline of Din’s Imp uniform would reach. Din whimpered at the notion of hiding Cassian’s mark on him just underneath the hated uniform, something to mark Din as Cassian’s and not the Empire’s. 

Din worked at getting Cassian to cooperate with removing their shirts. And then it was skin against skin, and it was _so good._ Din didn’t consider himself to have a way with words, and he couldn’t describe what he was feeling. He just knew he wanted more of it.

Finally, pants and undershorts were abandoned to be thrown somewhere behind the bed, and Din arched into the damp slide of their bodies against one another. Din was biting back moans, while Cassian whispered rough compliments between hot presses of his mouth everywhere he could reach. 

Din licked a wide stripe up Cassian’s chest, near the dark line of hair that Cassian could grow and Din couldn’t seem to, and he tasted salt and sweetness. He thought about how Cassian had looked kneeling in front of him in the locker room shower, and how, no matter the weirdness of that moment, he’d desperately wanted Cassian’s lips around his dick. Now, he wanted to give that to Cassian, too. He wanted to taste him there, and see how his perfect cock would react to Din’s mouth and hands. 

So Din rolled Cassian onto his back and shifted down the mattress, trailing kisses as he went. When he wrapped his hand around the base of Cassian’s cock and took the head of it in his mouth, Cassian squeezed his eyes shut and cursed, throwing his neck back. Encouraged by the reaction, Din decided not to worry about his lack of technique and laved the head with his tongue. He wanted to see Cassian lose his mind. He gently rolled Cassian’s balls before taking up an even stroking, hollowing his cheeks as moved his mouth up and down the shaft. 

Cassian’s eyes were wild. “You can--You can go lower, if you want.”

“Hm?” Din asked around a mouthful of Cassian’s cock.

“You can fuck me. If you want to. I want to, yeah?”

  
“Yeah,” Din said, palming his own erection excitedly. “Yeah, definitely.” And then he was pushing Cassian’s ass up, nearly folding him in half, to touch and lick his way down to Cassian’s hole. He traced it with his tongue, pushing at the puckered entrance. Cassian had a clean, masculine scent that Din didn’t mind at all. Not if he was going to get to see more of Cassian. To _feel_ more of him.

As Din speared him with his tongue, Cassian writhed and moaned. “There’s stuff. In the ‘fresher. For--” his words were cut off in a choked yelp when Din worked a first finger inside him. “Oh kriff.”

Din licked him one more time for good measure before dropping Cassian onto the mattress and dashing to the refresher. He ransacked the cabinet under the sink. Did Cassian mean lube? Condoms? Both? Din was clean, and he highly doubted the Imps stocked rubbers. But when he found a tube with a gel-like substance, he also found a pack of condoms beside it. _Well okay then._ Din snatched them up and caught a glance of himself in the mirror. He looked like a wreck. His face was flushed pink as a desert plum that a galoomp would dig up in the sand. He hurried back to Cassian anyway.

Din stopped in his tracks at the sight that welcomed him back into the main room. Cassian was leaning up against the wall at the top of the mattress, knees spread wide, fisting himself and working fingers into himself at the same time.

Din fixated on the alluring image, wanting to sear the memory of Cassian just like this into his memory. He tore open one of the wrappers and rolled on a condom. He jacked himself a few times, just watching, until Cassian whined for him to come closer. 

“So hot,” Din told him, climbing onto the bed and diving between Cassian’s legs again. This time, when he replaced Cassian’s fingers with his own, the passage was slick with the gel. But it was still so tight. _Kriff._ How was he going to fit inside there? 

But then with some careful angling and a surge of pressure from his hips, he was doing just that, sinking into Cassian’s tight heat. The sensation was incredible. Cassian was incredible. Din had to bite his lip to stop himself from praising Cassian’s name over and over.

“Move,” Cassian begged, and Din obliged. 

He’d intended to go slowly, to tease and drag out their pleasure, but any attempt at restraint was unattainable as his senses were overwhelmed by Cassian all around him. Din gripped Cassian’s muscled thighs, which quivered under his touch, and pounded into him. He worried briefly whether he was crushing Cassian into an uncomfortable position, but Cassian was just egging him on, demanding it faster and harder, pulling his face close enough to messily slide their mouths together. 

“I’m not gonna last,” Din warned, his hips snapping with exertion.

“Me neither,” Cassian hissed. Cassian’s erection had been pressed between their bodies, and Din took it into his trembling fist. 

He wanted Cassian to come first. Experimentally, he leaned down and scraped his teeth along pebbled pink skin of one of Cassian’s pecs. Din took Cassian’s stuttered curse as an encouraging sign. He switched to give attention to Cassian’s other nipple, which elicited a harsh groan and fingers digging painfully into Din’s scalp. Din bit down hard, then soothed the hurt with his tongue. Cassian squirmed under him, jerking erratically into Din’s fist, which became wet with Cassian’s release. 

Din eased his grip off the now-sensitive flesh, and tightened his hold on Cassian’s hips. With a burst of strength, he dragged Cassian’s entire body down the length of the mattress until Din could plant his feet on the floor and continue to thrust into Cassian’s sprawled, warm and willing body. Din’s hips stuttered, and he felt his climax build deep inside him. With a choked off cry, he came. 

Chest heaving, Din whimpered as pulled out. He discarded the condom, and then Cassian was tackling him onto his back on the mattress. 

“Kiss me,” Cassian said. It could have been a plea or an order. 

Either way, Din kissed him deeply through gulps of air. 

“Fuckin’ amazing,” Cassian told him, when Din’s kisses melted into just breaths over Cassian’s lips. 

Din had been right. He’d be _so_ right. This was _good._ And if things went to shit, as they still might, then at least Din would have this. Cassian was living proof that the universe wasn’t done with Din yet. He could still feel. Keenly. And as yet another being dug his nails into Din’s heart, Din knew the feeling could really grow into something sharp and extraordinary.

<><><><><><><><><><><>

Din was sitting alone at the desk, rapping his fingers on the table. Cassian had gone to report for a meeting, and Din was left to his own devices. There were still many hours before Mayfeld was due to return with a code cylinder they could use to break into Thrawn’s archive, where Din’s armor was (hopefully) stowed safely. 

The door buzzed.

Din stopped tapping his fingers. Could he just ignore it? 

The door buzzed again.

“Lt. Gershom, I know you’re there.”

_Dank farrik._ Din didn’t bother to grab his officer’s cap, but he made sure his blaster was in easy reach at his hip. He straightened his topcoat and went to open the door, hand hovering over his blaster if it came to that.

The door opened to reveal the medic that had treated Din earlier. His light green eyes, which stood out in sharp contrast to his dark skin, seemed to pin Din where he stood. The medic was wearing his crisp, white uniform, and his fingers were tapping radiply on his datapad. He flipped it around and directed Din’s attention to it. “Two missed appointments, Sir.”

Din peered at the datapad, which appeared to show some kind of calendar with two red blocks designated with his alias. “Sorry?” 

“I don’t know how things were run at the Morak facility, Gershom, but medical appointments are not optional aboard the _Chimaera._ ” 

Din pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “I see.”

“Well, there’s no time like the present. Come along.” The medic motioned for him to follow.

Din glanced around the corridor as if it could provide him the right excuse. “I can’t. I have to report for duty.” 

The medic’s eyes narrowed. “Do I need to call for an escort, _Sir?"_

That was definitely a threat. Din dropped his shoulders. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Great!” The medic turned on his heel, and Din was clearly expected to follow him.

Din sighed and allowed the door to close behind him as he fell in step with the medic. 

It took awhile for them to get to the medbay, and Din was grateful the medic didn’t seem interested in small talk. Once they arrived, Din was directed to remove his top coat so that a droid could take his vitals. As he sat in his black tee with his feet dangling off the medical bed, Din focused on not flinching every time the droid got close to him. The droid was blue and white and very tall. _Why did it need to be so tall?_

“I’ve updated TK-593’s chart, Dr. Laa,” the droid announced, apparently finished with him.

The medic, Dr. Laa, returned to Din’s side and scanned his datapad, humming as he read. He paused to look Din up and down, then reached for Din’s wrist, holding it gently as he manually took Din’s pulse. “Any complaints?”

“No.” Din had no intention of dragging this out any longer than necessary.

“Your heart rate _is_ still a little elevated. You nervous about something, Lieutenant?”

_You have no idea._ Maybe a little honestly would improve his lying. “I don’t like droids.”

Dr. Laa hummed again. “Your head scan came back clean, so the bacta healed the blunt force trauma as intended. But that doesn’t get you out psych eval.”

Din’s eyebrows lifted.

“There’s more than one kind of trauma, Lieutenant,” Dr. Laa said dispassionately. “The Morak facilities went up in flames. I presume you lost most of your comrades there? Maybe having some trouble sleeping now? Anxiousness? Tightness of breath?”

Din shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Hm.” Dr. Laa turned to the droid, who dispensed two small red pills from its chest compartment. The medic handed Din the pills as well as a small cup of water. “Take these.”

Din looked at the pills suspiciously, making no move to bring them to his mouth.

“I’ve prescribed them to you,” Dr. Laa said. 

Din remained still.

“That means you’re _ordered_ to take them,” Dr. Laa elaborated impatiently. 

Din grimaced. “What’s in them?”

“Have you never had these prescribed before? That’s some lucky service record you’ve had, then. They’re standard issue mood stabilizers. Anti-anxiety, anti-depressants, all the good stuff.” 

_Standard issue?_ Din hadn’t ever really considered how the Imps could sleep at night, to use Mayfeld’s words, but this must be part of it. From what Din knew about mood stabilizers, they took some time to work. If the plan proceeded on schedule, he was only going to be here one more day. “When will I feel the effects?”

“Immediately,” Dr. Laa replied. “The Empire’s _special blend._ ”

_Dank farrik._ Objectively, Din knew that he was not handling the fallout from taking off his helmet very well. His emotions were wildly erratic, and being stuck posing as an imperial officer was keeping him from the very being for whom he’d removed the helmet in the first place: Grogu. Maybe the meds would help him focus. He’d never taken anything like them. Growing up in the covert, there were recipes passed down over generations—herbal remedies to treat colds and minor ailments like headaches and things of that nature. And he’d certainly made use of bacta over the years, always endeavoring to keep the _Razor Crest_ well-stocked with first-aid supplies. But mood stabilizers? Kriff. 

Din chucked the pills into his mouth and tucked them under his tongue, followed by a swig of water. He opened his mouth slightly so Dr. Laa could verify he’d swallowed them. 

“TK-593 did not swallow the pills.”

_That kriffing droid._

Dr. Laa did not seem overly surprised. He silently tapped on his datapad, and Din suspected he was adding something unflattering to Din’s chart. To Gershom’s chart, that is. “Go on then,” Dr. Laa said testily, waving at Din. “We don’t have all day.”

Din closed his eyes briefly then swallowed the pills. This time, the droid lodged no objections.

“You’ll have plenty of time to think about why you are so keen to disobey medical orders during your chat with Dr. Tress,” Dr. Laa said. “Ping her, won’t you, R-7?”

“Yes, Doctor,” the droid complied. 

Dr. Laa gave Din a brief nod, then moved to another area of the medbay, leaving just the droid. 

Din’s legs were getting restless dangling off the bed, so he hopped down. 

“You will wait here, Sir,” the droid, R-7, stated tonelessly.

“I’m going to use the refresher.”

“Negative,” R-7 denied. “You will wait here for Dr. Tress. You have already missed two appointments with her since transferring to this vessel.” 

_Kriffing doid._

Din shrugged on his topcoat but left it open in the front. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the side of the bed. The droid left him alone. He glanced at his chronometer. He still had time. But hopefully this wouldn’t take long. He wondered if the meds were doing anything to him yet. He didn’t feel any different. 

Din wasn’t waiting long when two officers he didn’t recognize entered the medbay, flanked by four stormtroopers. The complement was definitely not Dr. Tress. One of the officers stopped to speak with the droid. The droid pointed at Din.

_Oh shit._

Din straightened his posture and clasped his hands behind him, attempting to appear as a model officer. 

One of the officers strode right up to Din. “Jr. Lt. Gershom? TK-593?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You were stationed at the Morak mining facility?”

“Yes, Sir.”

The officer nodded to his compatriot then returned his attention to Din. “I’m Lt. Commander Lewis Happ. I’m conducting the investigation into the rhydonium explosion on Morak.”

The man stated it as a simple fact, rather than an allegation, but it still set Din’s heart racing. Why was everything happening today? He only needed nothing terrible to happen for a few hours before he would be back in his armor and flying away from this nightmarish ship.

“There’s some irregularity in your files. I’m going to need you to come with us,” the officer said. The stormtroopers hefted their blasters, drawing Din’s attention. And now Din _was_ fairly certain he was being arraigned. 

Din thought fast. “I have another medical appointment. I’m, uh, still sick. And then I’m on duty. Can it wait until tomorrow...Sir?” 

Happ looked at Din askance, then stepped closer. He towered menacingly over Din. “Did you seriously just ask me that, Lieutenant?” 

Din blanched.

“This officer has an appointment with _me_ ,” a smooth voice intervened. 

Din and Happ both turned to the newcomer. It was another white-clad medic. She was almost inhumanly tall, nearly as tall as the droid, with pale skin and a shaved head. In fact, Din wasn’t sure she _was_ human, but he couldn’t place her species.

“Dr. Tress,” Happ started sourly, “This man has been aboard for _days_ and hasn’t been properly debriefed.”

The medic, Dr. Tress, was nonplussed. “This man has been aboard for _days_ following the obliteration of his previous post and hasn’t been properly _evaluated_ , Commander.”

The two imperials faced off each other, Din’s fate hanging between them. 

Happ broke eye contact first. “I could pull rank,” he said peevishly.

“You could,” Dr. Tress said lightly, “But your debriefing could take hours. I only need one.”

Din wondered what kind of medical appointment could take an entire _hour,_ especially when Laa had just given him a physical exam. He hoped whatever it was wouldn’t be too invasive. 

Happ capitulated with a brusque nod. “Fine. Have at him. But,” he continued, raising a finger, “Don’t turn him over to me all crying and shit. I know how your sessions can go.”

_What?_ Din’s concern skyrocketed. 

“Of course, Commander,” Tress demurred. She gestured at Din. “Follow me.”

With a quick look to confirm it was okay with Happ, who simply ignored him, Din pulled his unbuttoned topcoat tighter around himself and followed Tress out of the main medbay into a small office. “Please sit, Lt. Gershom. May I call you by your given name? Hjalmar?”

“Uh, sure,” Din responded, taking a seat on the fabric couch, which was the first furniture he’d seen on the ship that wasn’t made out of gray metal. 

There was a chair behind Tress’s desk, but she pulled it around to place it in front of the couch. She sat down gracefully, folding one leg over the other. “All right, Hjalmar. As you heard out there, I’m Dr. Tar Tress. Ship psychologist.”

Din coughed to try to cover the choked sound that escaped his throat. “Excuse me?”

Tress gave him a small smile. “The Grand Admiral has his own way of doing things. And he has observed that his troops display better performance metrics when they receive therapy following a traumatic event, such as,” she paused, glancing down at the datapad in her lap, “Assignment transfer following a mining disaster.”

Din froze. 

“Let’s review your file. From your chart, it appears that most everyone you worked with was killed, is that correct?”

Din’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “Uh, not, um, Osc. Osc Ramm.”

“He was your juggernaut trooper partner, correct?”

Din nodded.

“And he’s here on the _Chimaera,_ but it looks like he was assigned to a different detail than you.”

Din nodded again.

“Evidently, you had quite a tumultuous final day on Morak. First, you and Ramm were the only successful transport team. Quite the victory. And then, your entire base goes up in smoke. A great loss. To have such success and such tragedy in a single day, you must be reeling.”

Tress said it as a statement, rather than a question. Still, Din shook his head in denial. He was reeling, certainly, but not from _that._ He was reeling because he’d removed his helmet in order to get the coordinates to save Grogu. He was reeling because if he put it back on, he’d violate the Creed. He was reeling because he could never rejoin his tribe as a true Mandalorian. He was reeling because he was having to pretend to be an imperial officer aboard a Star Destroyer while his friends remained imprisoned and Grogu was in danger. Din glanced down at his hands in his lap helplessly as Tress continued. 

“Oh, and here’s an interesting entry in your medical chart. R-7 noted that when you were recovering from bacta immersion you were rambling something about a child? Do you have a family back home? A son?”

Din’s mouth felt like it was full of cotton. _He’d talked about Grogu when he’d been drugged?_ Gershom was supposed to be an officer, right? They could have families, Din was pretty sure. Tress didn’t seem like she was asking him in an accusatory way. “Yes,” Din managed to answer. “He’s . . . very young. I worry about him being without me.”

Tress nodded sympathetically. “It can be hard to be away from family. But serving the Empire serves your family, too.”

Din just scrunched his face and nodded.

Tress tapped her datapad and peered at Din more intensely. “And what about your relationships here on the ship?”

Din frowned. _What?_

“Let’s talk about Captain Anders. Rumor has it, he managed to finesse some data files, and long story short, you’re _bunking_ _with_ _your superior_ _officer_.” Tress emphasized the phrasing suggestively, pinning Din with a knowing glance. 

Din’s jaw dropped a little, and he had trouble closing it. 

Tress made a soothing sound. “Now, now, Hjalmar, this is all confidential. Well, mostly confidential. But I’d like to know when that started. Is he using his rank to force you, or is it consensual? Was it before Morak or after, the two of you bonding over the shared loss you experienced, hm?”

Din swallowed. He suddenly wished Commander Happ had taken him for questioning about his role in the mining explosion. It would have been easier.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din murmured a brief prayer for forgiveness.

Din was exhausted when Tress finally released him from her clutches. He looked at his chronometer, and saw that he had a missed message from Cassian. He also saw that Tress had actually spared him, because it had been less than a full hour. Maybe she was giving him a chance to slip away from Commander Happ? 

Truth be told, Din would rather have been interrogated by Happ about his role in the rhydonium explosion than have to talk about his fake feelings in his fake life for forty minutes. Tress had done most of the talking, accepting many of Din’s one-word answers and head shakes with nothing but taps on her datapad. Din knew he wouldn’t make it through a second session with her without getting found out. Apparently, what he’d just experienced was merely a get-to-know-you session, as Tress had described it. Din shuddered just imagining what her idea of a _real_ therapy session would be. He would be happy not to have to talk to _anyone_ about _anything_ for _months._

But Din knew that wasn’t the sabacc hand he’d been dealt. 

He used his window of escape to leave the medbay and get into a random turbolift, not caring about the destination. He worried about being picked up by Happ if he went to his quarters—his _shared quarters,_ as Tress had honed in on like a rabid Cyborrean nek with a bone. 

Din looked at his missed message from Cassian. It chewed up the character limit.

> _< <AVOID QUARTERS. ADVANCE TIMETABLE. CHEOTUZ_. _FIND RAMM_ _𝛽𝛽_ _-D6?_ -C.Anders. _> > _

Din had figured out to avoid their quarters on his own. He didn’t know what _cheotuz_ meant. He punched in the buttons for the section and deck level that Cassian had suggested for finding Mayfeld. He righted his topcoat as the turbolift whirred to life. He ran a hand through his hair, which was sticking up in every direction. He wished he had his cap to cover even a portion of his face, but he’d left it in his quarters. 

He exited the turbolift and found himself in yet another indistinguishable gray corridor. He walked slowly, straining his hearing to pick up any sounds from the rooms he passed that could lead him to Mayfeld. He could really use the kid’s big green ears right about now. 

A squad of stormtroopers marched past him. Then a service droid. Din kept walking. 

Finally, Din heard something promising: blasterfire. 

He stopped in front of a large entryway that opened into what appeared to be a shooting range. Din maintained his slow pace as he walked down the range, looking for Mayfeld. There were many Imps practicing their aim in the shooting stalls, and most of them were failing miserably if the barely-scorched targets at the end of each stall were anything to go by. 

But then Din passed one stall whose target had a bunch of dead-on bullseyes. The blaster holes were still smoking. But where was the sharpshooter? Din stepped all the way into the stall and leaned slightly over the ledge to peer down the line.

Din suddenly heard the sound of a blaster powering up and felt a small prod at his lower back. 

“I finally learned how to sneak up on you.”

Din let out the breath he’d been holding and turned to face Mayfeld.

“Hey, Mand--! Hey, man.” Mayfeld cut himself off, lowering the short blaster he’d had pointed at Din’s back. A much more impressive blaster rifle hung on his back. 

Din gave him a concerned once-over. It wasn’t like Mayfeld to almost make a slip like that. Mayfeld look as tired as Din felt. And his skin was paler than usual. 

Still, he offered Din a tight smile as fingered the nose of his short blaster. “I got that thing the Captain asked for.”

Din held out his hand, and Mayfeld dropped a code cylinder into it. 

Din quickly closed his fingers around it. It looked like the one the Mythrol had used to break into the base on Nevarro. Thinking of Nevarro made him think of Cara. He hoped she was hanging in there and that the trooper, Jensen, wasn’t giving her too much trouble. 

“Should I ask how you got this?” Din asked Mayfeld. 

Mayfeld smirked. “I traded for it.”

“What did you trade?”

Mayfeld leaned in and whispered near Din’s ear, “You don’t wanna know.” 

Din really didn’t, after all. 

Someone made a throat-clearing sound, and both Din and Mayfeld straightened their postures as a higher-ranking officer walked by Mayfeld’s stall. 

“Just tell Cap to wait to use it until _after hours,_ if you know what I mean,” Mayfeld said, waggling his brows and exaggerating the ‘after-hours’ part. Din thought the way he said made it sound like he’d given him contraband . . . or something sexual. Maybe that was the point.

The officer who’d come to check on Mayfeld snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Knock it off til _after hours,_ Ramm.”

“Yes, Sir!” Mayfeld replied readily. 

When Din had looked over at the officer passing by, he’d also spotted a half-dozen long blaster rifles, like the one Mayfeld was wearing, racked at the end of the stall. Din really wanted one. The short blaster in his holster was adequate, but Din would feel better with some additional firepower. If Din took Mayfeld’s, Mayfeld could easily grab another from the rack. So he leaned again towards Mayfeld, making as if to hug him or . . . whatever . . . and instead slipped the strap of the long rifle off Mayfeld’s back. Mayfeld didn’t protest. He let Din ease the rifle’s strap off his shoulder and onto Din’s. Din lifted his brows in explanation and thanks. 

Then, he departed the shooting stall, the code cylinder tucked safely in his pocket and the blaster rifle a comforting weight on his back.

He walked slowly back down the corridor the same way he came. But he wasn’t sure where to go. He couldn’t stay here with Mayfeld. He couldn’t go to his quarters. And if he lingered anywhere too long, the cameras might lead Commander Happ right to him. Mayfeld had been very clear with his little innuendo that he was advising Din _not_ to break into the archive to get his armor until later. Yet Cassian had said to move up the timetable, possibly because Commander Happ was onto him, too. 

Maybe Cassian was in trouble this very minute. The thought was troubling. Republic spy or not, Din was fond of him. If he was being honest with himself, ‘fond’ didn’t really do the feeling justice. Din respected him, liked him, and inexplicably felt a pang of unhappiness at the prospect of them going their separate ways at the end of this, the same way he despaired over having to deliver Grogu into a Jedi’s hands and out of Din’s life forever. 

Din had bounty hunted mostly solo for the better part of the last decade, and his attempts to team up with others, like running with Ran and Xi’an, had never clicked. Din had never regretted that. But everything had changed when Grogu came into his life. And now, it was as if the kid opening the door to Din’s heart hadn’t shut it properly, and there was room enough for others to worm their way inside, too. 

And as raw as Din had felt since he’d make the choice to remove his helmet to save the kid, he couldn’t bring himself to close everyone out again. Not just Cassian, but old contacts turned friends who shocked Din by stepping up to help him save Grogu. Kuiil. Fett and Shand. Mayfeld _._ Cara. Din wasn’t even sure when his occasional alliance with the drop trooper had turned into a genuine friendship, but it had, and he was grateful. Kriff, he’d even been tempted to offer Cobb Vanth a ride off Tatooine, if the marshall had been inclined, just because Din, who’d worked alone for years, was suddenly wanting to collect likeable people around him and not let them go. Would Cassian stick around, if Din asked? Cassian had better things to do than scrape a living out of bounty hunting. Din wasn’t exactly sure what he did for the New Republic, but he was clearly passionate about the cause if he was willing to risk his neck so deep undercover. Besides, Din had originally taken up bounty hunting to bring credits back to the covert. Even if he found what was left of the covert, they might not want what he had to offer now that he was _dar’manda._

Din might not be a real Mandalorian anymore, but he was even less of an Imp. He needed to get out of his officer’s uniform and find his armor. And for the sake of the mission, maybe he shouldn’t wait for Cassian. If Din could retrieve his armor now, it’d be easier to save Cassian as well as the others if need be. Although losing the imp uniform meant losing the element of surprise, as soon as he started blasting he’d lose that anyway. 

Decided upon a course of action, Din just needed to locate the Grand Admiral’s archive. It would probably be in or near his command office, if its contents were as coveted as Cassian had implied. Din was going to have to ask for directions again. He could only hope he ran into someone as chatty and unsuspicious as Ors.

As Din strolled the corridor, he spotted a sign that gave him an idea. _Mess._ Maybe this mess hall had one of those data consoles like the one on Morak. It had been fairly straightforward to operate. Din tried to act casual as he palmed the door entry and walked into the room. He observed tables and chairs, with a few officers and stormtroopers sitting at them. There were some vending devices for food and drinks along the wall to Din’s left. There were no windows. In the right-hand corner, Din spotted a data console. 

He walked over to the data console and placed both hands on it. As the facial recognition scanner began marking his face with lines of light, Din tried to hold still. But he felt a mild panic well up within him. This was how it had all started. This was the reason that when he put back on the armor, as he knew he must, he would be committing a grave offense to the Creed. 

But as fast as his panic had begun, it passed, petering out into a numb calmness. Din wasn’t sure if that was because he’d already spent so much time unmasked or because of the red pills he’d been forced to take. It didn’t matter. He was able to focus on the screen’s menu as it hummed to life. First, he looked up the coordinates to Moff Gideon again. He did trust that Cassian had gotten the information, but it didn’t hurt to have backups. After looking at the star map, he pulled up a map of the _Chimaera._ He found it and tapped a few buttons, scrolling to find something marking the forward command center. 

_Found it._

Din memorized the location and path. 

Should he transmit the location to Cassian? If Cassian had been found out, sending anything to him could compromise the mission. Plus, Cassian seemed to know his way around the ship already. But should he let Cassian know that he was putting the plan into motion early? Maybe Cassian could meet him there to help? Din weighed his options as he stepped back from the data console. 

On his way out of the mess, he snagged another officer’s cap that had been left forgotten on a table. As he stalked down the corridor towards HQ, he smoothed his hair back and put the imperial cap on, tugging on the brim to shield his face. He hitched the blaster rifle on his back closer so that it was in easy reach. Cassian could probably guess what he was going to do, anyway. It was time to retrieve his armor.

<><><><><><><><><><><>

The universe was finally cooperating with Din’s plans, because no one interfered as he determinedly made his way to the forward command center. 

Din wasn’t sure he was actually _allowed_ in the forward command center as a mere junior lieutenant. So as he got closer to his destination, he took to hiding and sneaking down the corridors. 

He was surprised and more than a little wary when he reached the locked command center and no one was around. He pulled the code cylinder out of his pocket and positioned it at the lock. He hoped it was worth whatever price Mayfeld had paid. 

The code cylinder lit up blue, and Din heard it rotate then click into place. _It worked!_

The doors slid open and Din cautiously walked in, hand hovering over his blaster. 

Din was relieved when the doors didn’t open straight onto the bridge but rather to a small entryway with yet more doors. He bypassed the large hologram map in the middle of the room. 

Ear pressed to the middle door, Din could hear a voice asking for orders from someone addressed as Captain Pellaeon, and then heard an authoritative speaker giving ship speed commands. Din backed away from the door, which clearly led to the bridge. 

There were two other doors to decide between. 

Din chose the one on his right first. It opened into a small conference room. 

He reversed course and went to the door on the left. It was locked. Din tried the code cylinder again, but it lit up red and wouldn’t work. _Dank farrik._ He tapped on the lock panel, which prompted for an alphabetic pin. 

Without any chargers to blast the thing open, Din was stuck. Wasn’t he? He stared at the access panel another moment and suddenly realized he _did_ have the code. _Thank Manda’alor for Cassian!_ Din tapped in the letters from Cassian’s chronometer transmission: _C H E O T U Z._

The door opened.

Din drew his blaster and stepped inside. The door hissed shut behind him. He quickly scanned the large, dimly lit space. He’d entered what appeared to be the Grand Admiral’s office. 

There was a large desk, with a thankfully empty chair, that stood imposingly in front of a wide space viewport. But Din’s eyes weren’t drawn to the stars. They were drawn to the walls. 

Small lights illuminated pieces of art hung on every part of the room like a gallery. No, not _like_ a gallery. It _was_ a gallery. Din saw paintings. Instruments. Pottery. Weapons. Each was more interesting than the next. 

This was the archive. _But where was his armor?_

Din searched the room and found nothing.

As he made another circuit, Din came to a halt in front of a striking painting that appeared to depict Mandalorians fighting beings wielding lightsabers. Was this the history that Armorer had spoken of? The race of enemy sorcerers with whom he was meant to reunite Grogu? 

Din unconsciously stretched out his hand to hover over one of the glowing sabers in the painting. 

Din was reminded of how he’d raised his vambraces to protect himself from the blows raining down from Ahsoka’s twin white blades before he’d explained his mission. Was this the kind of Force-using warrior Grogu was going to become? It seemed unlikely, with his tiny hands and sweet temperament. But anyone could be raised as a fighter. Din knew firsthand. Had he not been rescued by the Mandalorians as a foundling at Aq Vetina, he might have been anyone—a farmer, a mechanic, a chef. But he was none of those things now. He was a hunter. 

Momentarily transfixed, Din’s finger made contact with the canvas. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” a deep voice chided. “Paintings are for viewing, not touching.”

_Di’kut Din!_ Din chastised himself. He whirled around, blaster drawn.

_Snap crack!_

Din’s blaster was yanked out of his hands by a whip. The wielder of the whip was a blue man in a white imperial uniform. 

Din reached over his shoulder where his long blaster rifle lay across his back, but the man was already advancing on him. 

The man threw a punch at Din’s head. Din dodged, his cap falling off, and he scrambled for the rifle. But the punch had been a feint, and Din was suddenly pressed up against the wall with a blaster muzzle at his neck.

_Kriff!_

“Move your head, please,” the man requested with a silky imitation of politeness. 

Eyes wide, Din carefully leaned further into the blaster at his neck in order to lift his head off the wall. 

“That’s better. The oils from that unkempt mess on your head will damage the painting,” the man explained slowly, as if talking to a child. “And neither you nor I would want that.”

“Why’s that?” Din asked.

“Because out of all the art in this room, you were drawn to _this_ piece. That tells me something about you, Lieutenant.”

The blaster was digging painfully into Din’s neck. He could feel it crushing against his windpipe as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

“I have dealt with traitors and schemers alike. So, which are you? Are you here for power? Or,” he paused, looking to the painting then back to Din, “are you here for something else?”

This must be the Grand Admiral whom Cassian had warned him about. Grand Admiral Thrawn. And Din had lost the element of surprise. But Thawn hadn’t yet called for backup. No trooper guards had rushed the room. No bodyguard jumped out of the shadows. The Admiral was overconfident. Din wished he could call for his whistling birds. He’d have to resort to the absolute least comfortably-wielded weapon in his arsenal: deception. He needed to stall. “I was curious about the Jedi, Sir,” he spoke up, referring to the painting. “I thought they were just a myth. But then I heard things. I heard rumors about what happened on the Death Star.”

Thrawn’s red eyes narrowed. _He wasn’t buying it._ Din stood helplessly as Thrawn removed Din’s blaster rifle from his shoulder and tossed it out of reach. “What’s your name?”

“Lt. Gershom, Sir.”

The tip of the blaster tapped Din’s chin. “I don’t think it is,” Thrawn told him. “I think that I recovered three prisoners on Morak when I was looking for four. I think I recovered two sets of Mandalorian armor—one set a mere alloy and incomplete at best. But the other! A true work of craftsmanship. I have studied Mandalorian history, and I have destroyed many Mandalorians. This new set I recovered from the bowels of a broken ship was a masterwork of tradition, unvarnished, but with, shall we say, a _modern twist?_ I can tell it was not forged eons past but very _recently._ And that, I think, is the key. A recovered set of newly forged beskar, minus the wearer. Tell me, am I getting warm?”

Din didn’t want to know what gutted expression was on his face. 

Thawn continued without waiting for Din’s reply. “A Mandalorian once told me that a Mandalorian without armor is no more than a common soldier. Do you think that’s true?”

Another voice—familiar and heartening—answered on Din’s behalf. “It isn’t.”

Blaster shots fired, and Din immediately dropped to the floor. _Cassian was here!_

Thrawn shouted in pain, clutching his thigh, but somehow stayed upright.

Din grappled with Thrawn to get a hold of the blaster that had been held to his neck, but in their fumbling it popped out of their hands and sailed across the room, landing too far away to use. 

Din spun around and grabbed the first weapon he found on the gallery wall. It was a spear. He shoved forward against Thrawn with the spear. Even injured, Thawn was an unexpectedly formidable opponent, and he grabbed at the spear as well. Din dug his heels into the floor, trying to stabilize his stance. They fought for control of the spear between them. 

But Din wasn’t alone. And the Grand Admiral was.

Wasn’t he? _Where did Cassian go?_

Din had to redouble his efforts at staying Thrawn’s deadly weight, which he was pitting against Din with seasoned fierceness. 

Din let Thrawn back him towards the wall again. Thrawn sneered as he perceived his advantage. But then, agily, Din used the wall as a springboard to launch himself up and over Thrawn’s head. He then reversed his grip on the spear and pulled it against Thrawn’s neck, effectively placing him in a chokehold. 

Thrawn thrashed. 

Din squeezed harder, hoping Thrawn’s neck might break.

“Where’s my armor?” Din demanded.

Thrawn kept thrashing. 

“Come on, you were giving _speeches_ a minute ago. Where’s my armor?” But Din didn’t dare ease up his hold to make it easier for the man to talk. “Tell me where it is, and you won’t die by my hand.”

Straining, Thrawn pointed at a large chest near the desk. 

Din only pulled the spear tighter against Thrawn’s throat. The man’s pinched face drained of color. His red eyes shot open, glaring at Din with condemnation. 

After a final jerk, Thrawn finally slumped, and Din eased his unconscious body to the floor. 

“I lied,” Din told the man's prostrated form. 

Din dashed over to the chest to which Thawn had pointed. It had some kind of mechanical lock. Din hefted the spear and stabbed the lock. With a sickening crack, the lock shattered. Din threw open the chest’s compartment . . .

_His armor!_

It was all in the chest. Every pauldron. Every plate. And the helmet, gleaming at him in invitation. And under that, another set of armor, recently repainted and very much needed by its owner. 

Din murmured a brief prayer for forgiveness, then threw off his imperial topcoat and started to put on his armor, piece by piece, remaking himself. If this was his second life, he was going to make it count. People were counting on him. Grogu. Cara. Fett. Shand. Mayfeld. Cassian. 

Din rushed through the process of putting his armor on. He had to keep his imperial boots, but at least they were a matched set, unlike his old foraged ones. Din mentally categorized the beskar as he donned it. Shin, knee, and thigh plates. Vest. Cuirass. Holster. When he reached the pauldron with his mudhorn signet, he touched it reverently. _I’m coming for you, Grogu,_ he promised. He attached his vambraces and they lit up in recognition, encoded to him and only him. Then, he put on the jetpack. 

Lastly, Din put on his helmet.

His visor’s viewscreen hummed to life. He looked around for something to calibrate it with. The first thing that came across his vision was the spear. Something about the way it gleamed in the light made him wonder . . . 

Din picked up the spear and struck it against his vambrace. 

  
The spear clanged loudly, but it didn’t break.

Was this it? Was this the spear of pure beskar he’d recovered on Corvus, and promptly lost on Morak? Whether it was the same spear or Thrawn had somehow come into possession of another one like it, Din didn’t care. He affixed the spear to his back, and scooped up the other armor in the chest and stuffed it in a sack that he tossed over his shoulder. He retrieved the blaster rifle and the extra blasters. 

As Din was about to depart, the door flung open. A stormtrooper body was tossed into the room. Cassian appeared at the door’s threshold. “Got room for two more?”

Din bowed slightly and made room for Cassian to haul in two more stormtrooper bodies with blaster burns in their armor. 

“We’ll hide these bodies in here and lock the door,” Cassian explained. “No one will be the wiser.”

Din nodded and picked the blasters off the troopers. Fett, Fennec, and Cara would need them. 

“So, _this,_ ” Cassian looked Din up and down appreciatively, “is you.”

“This is the way,” Din said by habit, momentarily surprised to hear his voice again modulated by the helmet. He didn’t want Cassian to think that the armor meant Din wanted a permanent wall of beskar between _them,_ or that whatever they’d shared was over. “But, before . . . that was me, too. I’m still Din, under here.”

  
Cassian flashed him a radiant smile. “Well, Din, _Mandalorian_ , it’s nice to meet you. Let’s go save your friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Star Wars Translations_  
>  Dar’manda = A state of not being a Mandalorian / Mando’a  
> Di’kut = Idiot / Mando’a  
> Ch’eo tuz = My power / Cheunh (Chiss language)


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shipwide alarms were blazing.

Din and Cassian moved through the ship like a well-oiled machine, sniping Imps left and right. Din took point, since nothing they had could pierce the beskar. Cassian slipped behind through the shadows, picking off the stragglers and covering Din’s back. Din trusted him there.

The shipwide alarms were blazing by the time they reached the correct turbolift to take them to the prisoner deck. Din hoped the Imps weren’t smart enough to cut the turbolift’s power.

As the lift rose deck after deck, they took a moment to catch their breaths. Din placed a hand on Cassian’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” Din asked, visually checking him over for damage. They were so closely huddled together that, if not for Din’s helmet, they would be sharing breaths.

“I’m fine,” Cassian assured. “Just lost another alias, that’s all.”

“Mm, sorry about that.” 

“You did what you had to do. Believe me, I understand.”

His eyes held a story that Din wanted to know. Even though Din had just gotten his helmet back, he desperately wanted to take it off so he could look at Cassian. And not just look. _Screw it._ Din lifted the helmet just enough to be able to swoop in and place a quick but firm kiss on Cassian’s lips. 

Cassian seemed startled. Din pulled back nervously. 

“Wait,” Cassian whispered, reaching for Din’s helmet to tug him back over. “Try that again.”

So Din kissed him again. This time, the kiss was _alive._ Cassian’s lips moved against his, and Din relished the soft, needy sensation as they touched, the sweet electricity of it racing along the nerve endings up and down Din’s entire body. 

It was with annoyance that Din registered the lift reached its destination, the doors opening to the prisoner deck. Cassian pushed Din’s helmet back in place, and Din strode out of the lift, stopping to aim a single blaster shot at Jensen, who was sitting with his feet propped up on the console like before.

_Ping! Ping!_

Blaster bolts from the other side of the console dinged against Din’s pauldron, striking his signet. Din maneuvered his blaster towards where the blasts had come from. It was Ors. She was hiding behind the console, taking pot shots at him.

“Ors! Back down!” Din ordered.

“Who the kriff are you?” Ors demanded from her hiding spot.

Meanwhile, Cassian shot up the console, producing a shower of smoke and sparks. “That should take care of the locks.” Din nodded to him as he sprinted down the corridor with the holding cells to free Fett, Cara, and Shand.

“Ors, put down your blaster and come out!” Din growled. He didn’t want to shoot her if he didn’t have to. 

“Not a chance, Mando! I’m going to kill you!”

Ors took another few well-aimed shots at him, which bounced off his armor. Din sighed. “I don’t have time for this.” 

He leapt over the console and tackled her. She was strong but no match for him in his armor. He smacked his helmet into her face in a violent kov’nyn, and she went down hard. Satisfied that she was down for the count, Din trained his blaster on their only exit, the turbolift door, ready to defend against the swarms of Imps that were due to be incoming any time now.

“Mando!” An excited voice called out.

“Dune!”

Cara was at his side instantaneously. He grinned behind his helmet at seeing her in one piece, raring to fight. He tossed her a free blaster. 

She caught it and flipped it into position matching Din’s aim. “So what are we looking at?” she asked. 

“Nothing yet,” Din said. “But that’s our exit.”

“Then let’s protect it,” Cara said, keeping her blaster trained at the lift doors. She nudged him. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Din told her, letting his genuine relief color his voice.

“And what about us?” another voice joined.

Knowing Cara had their exit in her scopes, Din was able to turn to see Fett and Shand come trotting out of the prisoner corridor. Cassian had evidently already provided them arms, and they both looked ready to wreak destruction. Except Fett was missing something. 

Din pulled the sack he’d strung on his back out and hefted it to Fett. Fett looked inside and then gave Din a gratified look. “Thank you for returning this to me a second time.”

“You’re welcome,” Din replied. “It wasn’t _his_ to keep. He might have appreciated it as a piece of art, but he wasn’t worthy of holding it, let alone understanding it. _You_ are.”

“You honor me, burc’ya,” Fett murmured, already attaching pieces of his green and red armor and sliding his helmet onto his head. 

“Din says this place is going to be crawling with Imps in a minute,” Cara said. “We’ve got to move.”

“What’s our exit?” Shand asked. 

“Allow me,” Cassian said, taking large strides across the vestibule to the turbolift. He promptly shot up at the turbolift’s ceiling, and a panel fell open. Cassian kneeled down and cupped his hands. “Who’s first?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Shand said, and she placed her boot in Cassian’s hands so he could boost her up to crawl out and on top of the turbolift. 

Fett followed, and then Cara and Din. As Cara clasped Din’s gloved hand to pull him up, which she did as easily as if his weight was that of a small child and not fully armored Mandalorian, she asked him, “So, who’s this guy?”

“Cassian.” Din lay flat on his stomach so that Cara could hold him by his feet as he pulled Cassian up. “Watch the spear.”

“Oh wait, is this the guy that you told us not to shoot on Morak?”

Din grunted as he lifted Cassian the final way up and onto the turbolift. He held onto him a little longer than strictly necessary. “Yes, and that order still stands.” Din felt Cara watching him as he patted down Cassian’s body, taking liberties in checking him for injuries while he was still finding his balance. 

Cara smirked, and Din ignored it. 

As Din assured himself that Cassian was unharmed, Cassian stared at his visor. “When did you realize you liked me this much?”

“In therapy,” Din answered truthfully. 

Cassian looked puzzled, but Din just gave him one more pat then a small push towards the edge of the lift. 

“This way,” Fett directed, already having found a service ladder. Din was glad they wouldn’t have to rappel down.

Fett’s discovery wasn’t a moment too soon, because the turbolift started moving. Din and Cassian were the last ones to jump off the top of the lift and catch the ladder before the lift powered up and began to ascend. The speed of it shook the turbolift shaft. 

Carefully, they climbed down to Hangar 5.

After Cara kicked open the emergency door to the hangar, Din and Fett peered out, using their helmet’s sighting scopes to evaluate the situation. 

Din had expected to see platoons of stormtroopers in formation. Instead, he only saw a few scattered troopers and officers. 

“Is this too good to be true?” Fett wondered.

Cara cocked her blaster. “Nah. We deserve some good luck.”

Cassian peeked over Din’s shoulder, resting his chin on Din’s pauldron. “The Force must be with us. Or Mayfeld did something.”

Din considered it. “I’m going to have to put my credits on Mayfeld.”

“If it’s clear, let’s run for it,” Shand suggested.

They ran for it, blasters firing.

They made quick work of the few Imps who tried to stand between them and the lambda class shuttle parked in Bay 4. The shuttle’s bay doors were already opened, and Din shepherded everyone up the ramp, defending against a few more stupidly brave (or bravely stupid) troopers. 

Mayfeld was in the main shuttle hold to greet them. “It’s about time,” he said gruffly. “I was getting worried, so I blew something up. Again.”

Din nodded at him gratefully and slammed the controls to retract the ramp and close the doors. 

Mayfeld waved up and down at Din, taking in his reclaimed armor. “You happy again?”

Din wasn’t sure happy was the right word for it. But then again, it wasn’t the wrong word for it either. “I’m happy.”

Mayfeld nodded, then slapped the shuttle walls and yelled up to the cockpit. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” 

Din hurried up to the cockpit to find everyone arguing over the controls. Cassian was in the primary pilot’s seat. “He’s got this,” Din announced. He shooed everyone else out of the cockpit and took the co-pilot’s seat for himself. 

Cassian was putting on the nav headset, and he threw Din a cocksure grin. “Oh yeah, I’ve got this.” The shuttle’s wings shifted into the takeoff position as Cassian flipped switches and handled the throttle, nimbly maneuvering the ship through the hangar towards the exit. 

“I’ll man the weapons,” Fett called from the main hold. 

Inevitably, the Imps had figured out what was going on, and the shuttle was taking heavy fire. 

“This is why I wanted Bay 1!” Mayfeld complained loudly from behind the cockpit, where he was likely looking over Fett’s shoulders on the guns. 

“Hold onto your fathiers’ reins, baldie,” Fett said with dark promise, and started firing the shuttle’s weapons at the incoming ranks of troopers. 

“It’s shaved, laserbrain,” Mayfeld retorted. “And make sure you frag those droids! They’re hitting us real hard.”

As the ship quaked under the onslaught, Din’s grip tightened on the chair. “I hate droids.”

“Hey, my best friend was a droid!” Cassian spluttered.

Din filed away that disturbing comment for later and watched out of the cockpit viewport as blaster fire was exchanged. _They were so close!_ And then he zoomed in with his helmet’s targeting capabilities as he observed a figure in white at the rear of the advancing troopers. Zooming in further, Din saw blue skin and red eyes. Was that...? _No!_ “Kriff!” Din yelled. 

Cassian kept his eyes on the shuttle’s trajectory but asked worriedly, “What’s wrong?”

“He’s not dead! I thought I killed him.”

“Thrawn?”

“Yes, I see him out there. Turn the ship around. We can blast him!” 

“Too risky,” Cassian stressed. “I’m going to tell you something I once had to tell my dearest friend: _leave it.”_ Cassian’s voice was full of conviction. “We have everything we need.” 

“But--” Din started.

Cassian’s hand found his and squeezed. 

Din exhaled loudly and let himself fall back into his seat. 

The shuttle emerged from the Star Destroyer’s hangar and headed into open space. Tie-fighters were scrambling from other hangars, heading for them with streaks of green bolts blazing their trails.

Cassian punched several buttons and flipped some knobs, and the shuttle spun and rolled in a skillful deflection. Fett returned fire. Cassian’s touch on the controls appeared light, as if he wasn’t taking the duty seriously enough. But as the ship evaded fire again and again, Din had to admit he was a masterful pilot. 

  
Cassian announced, “Preparing to make the jump to hyperspace in 5, 4, 3, 2 . . .”

The stars turned into streaks of light.

_They’d made it._

Safe in hyperspace, Cassian let go of the controls and turned to Din. “I’ve got the coordinates. I’m coming with you to rescue your--”

Din yanked Cassian out of his seat and onto Din’s lap. He pushed up his helmet and kissed him soundly. 

Cassian moaned into his mouth, and Din was drowning again, but this time in Cassian’s intoxicating scent. He couldn’t get enough. 

Cara’s voice came like out of a dream. “Hey, Mando, are we going straight for Gideon’s light cruiser, or are we--oh! Oh. Ohhh.”

Din realized he was going to need to fill her in on a few developments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Star Wars Translations_  
>  Burc’ya = Friend / Mando’a  
> Kov’nyn = Mandalorian headbutt, Keldabe kiss / Mando’a


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din frowned, thinking of the Armorer’s quest for him and the painting that was still hanging on Thrawn’s wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this story made me smile a lot over the holiday break. Thank you for going on this adventure with me! And thanks for commenting if you had a good time!

Standing on the bridge of Gideon’s light cruiser, Din’s eyes welled with emotion as Grogu toddled over to the R-2 unit. Din was going to miss him so much. But this was the end of his quest. More importantly, this was the right thing to do for Gorgu. This was the Jedi that heard Grogu’s call and came for him. This was the Jedi that could protect Grogu. Din had to let the kid go. 

“Luke!”

“Cass?”

_Cass!?_ Din blinked the tears out of his eyes as he was hit with a burst of confusion/jealousy/anxiety/hope setting his nerves alight. 

Cassian came bounding over from where he’d been hacking the cruiser’s controls. He reached for the Jedi, who smiled and clasped their hands. They pulled each other in for an embrace, with Grogu in the middle, cooing happily.

Din was stunned. 

Cassian reached for Din next, dragging him into their little circle. “Luke, meet Din the Mandalorian and protector of little Grogu here. Din, this is the hero of the Rebellion and not-too-shabby Jedi, Master Luke Skywalker.”

“My pleasure,” the Jedi, Skywalker, said warmly. “And Cassian is a hero of the Rebellion, too, you know. A founder of it, in fact. He was cobbling the whole movement together before I even knew what the Force was, much less set foot off Tatooine.” 

This was _a lot_ to process. 

The Jedi turned blue eyes towards Gideon’s unconscious form. “It seems like you had things well in hand here. I came as soon as I could.”

“Din Djarin,” Din gave his full name, as he shook his head. “The Dark Troopers . . . I am glad you arrived when you did.”

Cara’s voice interrupted. “Mando, I mean Din, do you mind if we . . . ?” 

Din turned around and graced his friend with a small smile. “I already told you on the shuttle. It’s fine. You can know my face. I want you to.”

Cara kicked at Gideon with her foot, shuffling a bit, and beamed at Din. “I’ve always known you, with or without that helmet,” she corrected him gently. “This is just, well, you have a nice face, you know that?”

Din wanted to hide that face, which was reddening by the second, in the crook of Cassian’s neck. “Save me,” he muttered, only half joking. But he made no move to pick up the helmet from where he’d set it done. Not yet. 

Cassian’s fingers interlaced with Din’s gloved ones. “Any time.”

Mayfeld joked, “That’s why we call him Brown Eyes, sweetheart.” 

Cara put her hands on her hips. “I’m not calling him that. And who are you calling sweetheart, sweetcheeks? Maybe I should find an extra pair of cuffs and get you ready to go back to the chop yards?”

“Aw, come on,” Mayfeld groused. “Surely I’m growing on you, right? I know Mando likes me well enough now. At least, I know what Mando _likes_ \--”

Din cut him off hastily. “Yes, thank you, Mayfeld. I like you well enough.” Well enough to make sure that Cara didn’t _actually_ make good on her threat to throw him back in prison. 

“We’ve got incoming,” Shand declared anxiously. Then her tone relaxed. “It’s Fett.”

Skywalker, who’d been crouched down, communing with Grogu, stood up. “Did you say Fett? As in Boba Fett, the bounty hunter?”

“He’s a friend,” Din said carefully.

“I thought he was sarlacc food,” Skywalker mused.

“He lived,” Din informed him, a bit indignantly. “And Grogu and I are both grateful he did.”

“Me too,” Shand chimed in.

“You know,” Skywalker began, picking up Grogu and addressing him, “I almost died on Tatooine. If you like Mandalorian stories, I’ve got one for you.”

Din frowned, thinking of the Armorer’s quest for him and the painting that was still hanging on Thrawn’s wall. “I don’t want you telling him stories about Mandalorians trying to kill you,” he told Skywalker solemnly. “I think it’s time for a new chapter between Mandalorians and Jedi.” Din realized he was essentially telling the Jedi how to raise Grogu rather than letting the Jedi raise him as he saw fit as one of his own kind. “That is, if you want,” he added lamely. 

As Skywalker brushed the back of Grogu’s head, he nodded at Din, matching his serious expression. “That’s a wise suggestion. I’ll adhere to it.” Skywalker’s eyes flicked down to Din’s belt, where the darksaber hung. “Do you mind my asking, is that a lightsaber? That’s typically the weapon of a Force user. Are you--?”

Din shook his head. “No, no. That’s the kid’s deal. This weapon,” Din patted the hilt, “I confiscated from Moff Gideon. He said it’s called the Darksaber. Its wielder is the Mand’alor, the leader who will be able to reunite all Mandalorians.”

Cassian asked, “Does that mean you’re the leader of all Mandalorians now?”

“Hardly,” Din huffed, thinking of his nebulous Mandalorian status, given his breaking of the Creed. But then, maybe his removal of the helmet wasn’t a death after all, but instead a dark winter. Meeting Bo-Katan and Fett had planted a seed that, maybe not now, but when he was ready, he might be able to nurture into a new _way,_ lusher and more vibrant than before. “I don’t want the Darksaber. But I know someone who does.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to discard it, if you earned it,” Skywalker advised him. “Sometimes the Force has a way of delivering what we need. You might need that saber.”

Din looked meaningfully at Cassian. “I have everything I need.”

Cassian was still hovering at Din’s side as if magnetized to the beskar that encased him.

Skywalker graced each of them with a shallow bow of his head. “I’m going to prep my X-Wing for departure.” When he left, he had Grogu in his arms. 

Din watched them go, his heart clenching painfully. 

“People, we have more incoming!” Shand pronounced in warning from the command console. “We’re receiving a transmission. Patching it though.”

A woman's voice sounded over the subspace communication. “Class 546 Cruiser, this is Shuttle Delta-Delta-Nine-Seven requesting docking.”

“Approaching shuttle, that’s a negative,” Shand said into the receiver. “You are denied clearance.”

But Cassian’s grip on Din’s hand tightened reflexively. “What was that shuttle designation?”

“Delta-Delta-Nine-Seven.”

Cassian ran over to the receiver and slammed the speaker button. “Jyn?! Is that you?”

“Cassian?!”

“ _More_ New Republic?” Mayfeld questioned indignantly. He nudged Cara. “Someone’s gonna have to hurry up and expunge my record, Marshal. My allergies to handcuffs are starting to tickle my nose. I might sneeze and disappear.”

“Make that two expungments,” Shand said dryly.

“Make it three,” Din admitted, thinking about his outstanding warrant.

Cassian wasn’t fazed. “I’ll take care of it.” He seemed lighthearted at his imminent reunion with this Jyn person, who Din realized might whisk him back into the thick of things in the New Republic. 

“Fett, too,” Shand reminded him.

“Fett, too,” Cassian amended. As Shand gave Cassian’s newest arriving Republic friend directions for docking, Casian gravitated to Din’s side as if he could sense the spiraling of Din’s thoughts. He whispered lowly so no one but Din could hear, “You know, I didn’t believe much in the Force until I started working with people who made it real for me, like Chirrut, Luke, and the General. But one thing I know is that it works in strange ways. It brought Grogu to you. And it brought me to you. And I just have this feeling that, well, let’s just say that I’m not letting you go unless you make me.”

“I _could_ make you,” Din whispered back. But there was no heat to it. Instead, all the heat was swirling in his chest, which felt tight, not with pain but with longing. 

“But you won’t, will you?” Cassian asked, winding an arm around Din. “You’ll come with us?”

“Us as in you and this . . . Jyn?” Din asked, uncertain. 

Cassian tugged at the curls on the back of Din’s head that stuck up from under his cowl. “She’s the one I was waiting for on Morak. She’s my friend.”

“I thought you said your best friend was a droid, which is horrifying, by the way.”

“He _was,_ ” Cassian insisted. “He saved my life more times than I can count. But that’s not what I meant. I meant ‘us’ as in me and Luke and, you know, your little green son? The one with the big ears? I think he’d be pretty upset if you bail on him now.”

“But I thought...” Din trailed off. He thought that his quest was to deliver Gorgu into the Jedi’s care. He didn’t think he had any right to stay involved, much less stick around. “I didn’t think that was an option. The other Jedi I met said that Grogu’s attachment to me could make him weak. That it could make him vulnerable to darkness. I thought the Jedi would take him away for training?”

Cassian took Din’s face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. Din’s breath hitched. It was a Mandalorian keldabe kiss. Did Cassian know the meaning of such a tender gesture in Mandalorian culture? Or was this just instinct to him?

“Din, why don’t you _ask_ him?”

And then Cassian was taking Din by the hand past the blast doors and to the turbolift. They stood together in silence as the lift carried them down to the hangar where the Jedi’s X-Wing was parked. Cassian’s grip on him felt as strong as the beskar he wore, and Din held onto him just as tightly. The doors opened, and they jogged across the hangar to catch up with Skywalker. 

Cassian gave Din an encouraging shove forward. 

“Skywalker,” Din called.

The Jedi’s blond head appeared, looking over the edge of the cockpit. 

“If you think it’s the right thing for Grogu that I not know where you’re going or make plans to see him again soon, I’ll respect your decision. But,” Din took a deep breath. “I would ask you to reconsider.”

Skywalker’s serene face fell. “You think I was just going to snatch him away and he’d never see you again?”

_Had Din insulted him? But yes, that’s the gist of what he’d thought._ Din nodded slightly.

Rather than extending the ladder, Skywalker exited the cockpit by leaping down using his Jedi powers. Grogu giggled in his hands as they descended in a way that bitterly reminded Din of how much Grogu enjoyed the wind in his ears when held in the Rising Phoenix. Skywalker landed on his feet as if cushioned by some invisible pillow. “Din, I thank you for the trust you’ve put in me. As I said before, I will protect Grogu with my life. But I am not trying to hide him from you. I thought _you_ wanted me to take him and hide him away. I have great regard for your bond with him, and I welcome you to a permanent place in his life, if you choose it.”

Din didn’t have the words to express his relief. So he nodded again. “I do.” He said it like a vow. He reached for Grogu, and Skywalker handed him over. Din hugged Grogu and placed a tender kiss on the top of his head. “I’ll see you again soon,” he promised. 

Cassian slipped into the space at his side. “I’ll help make sure of it,” Cassian pledged. 

<><><><><><><><><>

**_Epilogue_ **

Jyn’s shuttle had not carried Din and Cassian many parsecs before they received an incoming short-range transmission. 

Din was nearly asleep in a chair at the back of the cockpit, rest coming easily as he listened to the soft chatter of Cassian and Jyn catching up about each other’s exploits. But his ears perked up when he heard Grogu’s tiny cries over the subspace comm. 

The X-Wing docked with Jyn’s shuttle, and Cassian opened the hatch. Din watched as a little green and brown bundle was passed like a precious burden from one set of arms to another. And then Cassian set Grogu down on the deck, and the kid came barreling towards Din as fast as his little legs could carry him. 

Din laughed joyfully as he scooped him up into his arms. “When I said I’d see you again soon, I didn’t mean after _the first five parsecs,_ you little womp rat. You’ve got to behave for the Jedi, okay?”

Grogu cooed happily in reply. 

Din snuggled Grogu, who seemed eager to touch Din’s face again. As he did so, Din looked up to give Cassian a rueful, slightly apologetic smile. 

“I’ll guess that means we’re all going to Yavin first,” Cassian surmised, returning the smile. “I’ll set in the course and hold us steady.”

“Yes,” Din said, certainty rising like the first brave bud after a merciless winter. “You will.”


End file.
